The Fold: Pestilence
by TheShakespeareCode
Summary: Sequel to my story "The Fold". After Alyssa Stone's rebellion, Brandon the Broken reigns on, with Prince Robin by his side. But a new disease infiltrates the shores of Westeros, the like of which has never been seen before. With religious groups turning fanatic, and the unsteady new monarchy threatening to collapse, can even the Three Eyed Raven hold the throne?
1. The Past

**Hello all! I'm back with a sequel! If you haven't read my story "The Fold", you might want to do so before you read this, or you will be _extremely _confused! This follows directly on from the end of the story, so quite a lot has already happened! Here is the link (if it works): ** s/13296297/1/The-Fold

**To anyone coming from "The Fold", hello and welcome! I've missed you all! I can generally manage a chapter every single day, so I'll see you tomorrow with more! Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy! xxx**

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_The Kingsroad _

* * *

Being on the road for a little under a month could never be a pleasure. Even in the comfort of the royal carriage, it was near impossible not to grow weary of the Kingsroad. Cramped conditions and landscapes that grew ever greyer as they journeyed further into the great frozen kingdom of the North, it would have been a difficult enough endurance as it was. However, it was the frigid temperature that made it almost unbearable. The cold seemed to increase tenfold with every mile.

Robin Arryn could not understand it. There he sat, shivering fit to burst, with a heavy cloak around his shoulders and a fur blanket over his knees, clasping his rabbitskin-gloved hands to his mouth and breathing as much hot air onto them as he could muster. The warmth of the capitol agreed with him so well that he had almost forgotten how bitter the weather could be-and this icy chill was far more intense than any snowfall he has experienced at the Eyrie. Yet, opposite him, there sat Brandon Stark. His black clothing contrasted strikingly with his pale skin; and yet the most startling juxtaposition was his manner. His unchanging expression was unreadable-the young king may as well have been sitting beside a warm hearth as out in the cold.

"I do not know how anyone lives up here!" Robin whinged, rubbing his hands together as if trying to conjure sparks for a campfire. "It is utterly freezing!"

"I have known it far worse." said Brandon with habitual vagueness, tilting his head slightly to one side as he regarded his husband. He did not elaborate further, but Robin had been expecting no more. A sentence in response from Brandon was an achievement in itself.

"Of course. You hardy Northern direwolf." He cracked a small smile, before shoving his hands into his armpits and clenching his jaw. "But seriously-I haven't the first idea how one can bear it. Although I can certainly see now why most criminals choose losing a hand over the Night's Watch. I think I'd do the same." He thought for a moment, clenching his fists beneath his cloak-before his face turned ashen, his large, dark eyes almost popping out of his head. "Actually no. That would hurt. I'd take the black." He shuddered, hesitating once again. "Actually no. _I_ don't know!" Sighing, he stared vacantly out of the window at the landscape beyond. "It is too cold to think!"

Brandon was silent for a moment, fixing Robin with an extremely hard stare. "Does complaining make you warmer?"

"Alright!" Robin snapped, sitting up a little straighter. "Not all of us can bear our trials in silence. Besides." Relenting, his lips stretched into a smile once more, shaking his head slightly. "You would miss me if I was quiet."

To this, Brandon made no answer at all-but Robin relaxed, far too used to his ways by now to care. When they had first met, he may have found such stony silence off-putting at best, offensive at worst. But now, he found it almost endearing; and he would certainly miss Brandon without his unnerving silences.

"I shall not miss the road," Robin murmured a few minutes later, casting his eyes over the landscape of the North. It was strange to look out at it, with its wintery mountains and planes, in the knowledge that it was not a kingdom anymore. It was even stranger to think of finally reaching their destination…the very thought of it sent nervous snakes squirming inside him. In an attempt to quell them, he tried to turn them into excitement. "But I know it will all be worth it when I see Winterfell at last. To think it was raised by Bronn the Builder himself…"

The corner of the king's eye twitched slightly, his thick eyebrows knitting together. "_Bran_ the Builder."

"What?" Robin frowned, racking his brains-until the truth dawned on him. "Oh. Yes. Of course._ Bran_ the Builder. That was it…"

If one knew Brandon well, one could tell by the slightest inflection in his face that he was quite dumbfounded at Robin's ignorance.

"Oh, don't look at me like that!" Robin protested, trying to maintain dignity. "I get muddled up! On another note," He smiled as sweetly as he could at his husband, attempting to distract him with flattery. "The nice thing about such a long journey is that I got to share it with you. I only wish we could spend so much time together at home too…"He leaned forward, and took Brandon's hand in his. "If we were back at the Keep, in comfort, I would give anything to spend twenty-seven days straight by your side."

"Twenty-eight days." corrected Brandon, his tone unchanged.

"Oh, for the sake of the gods!" Robin exclaimed, dropping Brandon's hand and clutching both of his own to his forehead. "I was trying to be nice! Do you have to be so pedantic?" He sighed hard. "Don't look at me like I am stupid."

"I do not think that you are stupid." Thankfully, Brandon's eyes had grown a fraction softer. Perhaps he was even amused. Regarding the prince as warmly as he was capable, he spoke gently. "I think you are the light of my life, Robin."

Robin was more than caught off-guard by the sudden affection. He had learned not to expect it from Brandon-but whenever he gave the slightest bit, it felt completely overwhelming. It spread through his body, every fibre warmed by its presence as it lingered in the air. "That is not especially difficult, darling, if you grew up in this frozen land." he quipped softly, smiling for real. "The sun must only shine for a few hours each day."

"It is in this frozen land that I intend to wed you tomorrow night…"

At this, Robin could not help but beam. The warmth intensified tenfold. He could do nothing but get carefully to his feet, clutching the arms of Brandon's chair for support, and kiss him excitedly, trying to pour all the words he did not have the intelligence to express into him through it. "I can hardly bear to wait. Would that I could marry you this minute!"

"It is better that we must wait." Brandon could not help but look pleased. Robin knew him so well by now that he no longer needed a smile to confirm that his husband was happy. The slightest glint in his eyes was more than enough. "There is much that I must do first. Sansa is to receive us. There are still the boarder issues to discuss. And I want to visit my father in the crypt."

"Yes." Robin agreed, kissing his forehead a final time, before returning to his couch. "In any case-it gives me more time to look forward to it…"

Settling back onto the cushions and wrapping the furs around him once again, he considered the future-the very immediate future. Tomorrow night, he would walk out into the bitter night air, to meet Brandon in the ancient Godswood beneath the Northern stars. There, they would wed for the second time-no longer as a matter of duty, no longer as near strangers in the Sept of Baelor, but as themselves, and of their own will. It was a prospect that still sent shivers down his spine every time he thought of it. And now…the careful equilibrium that they had cultivated between them, the forgiving understanding of one another, the quiet but certain love that let their unconventional marriage flourish…was about to be solidified forever. And nothing could ever tear them apart again.

* * *

_The Red Keep_

* * *

Tyrion could not recall a time when he had been more well-rested. Power did not sit well on the sleeping mind, and it was a nightly struggle to lull himself to sleep. Music did not help, darkness or brightness made no difference, and even wine sometimes neglected to take the edge off. But last night…he had been enveloped in such absolute comfort that he had simply drifted off, as if he was floating on the warmest, calmest ocean…with nothing but himself, and his itching eyes slipping closed at last.

Whistling, Tyrion made his way through the corridors of the Red Keep, feeling more cheerful than he had felt in years. Indeed, he could not recall the last time he had found it in himself to whistle. Certainly not since…well. He did not wish to dwell on the past today. He wanted to think of the future.

Suddenly, as he turned a corner-a small tornado with a head of blond hair collided with him. The tornado bounced off of him, giving a small "Oh!" of surprise-before grinning gap-toothed up at Tyrion, chubby-cheeked and rather mischievous.

"Ah!" Tyrion could not help but smile back, ruffling the child's hair. "Good morning, young master Sam. How nice to, ah…bump into you."

"Sam! What have I told you about-" A young woman dressed in purple appeared, looking rather anxious. "I'm so sorry, my lord!"

"Oh, not to worry at all. _Dear_ Gilly." Tyrion nodded to her, feeling as always rather fond of this rescued Wildling daughter. Looking at her now, her hair combed loose and dressed in Southern clothes, it was hard to believe the horror from which she had sprung. Her late father/husband was more than infamous…Tyrion had always had a soft spot for cripples, bastards, and broken things. Although Gilly did not seem broken any more. She was whole-and flourishing.

"Quite the little battering ram, aren't you?" he said to little Sam, patting his head. "Nearly knocked me flying! We shall have to get you out on the jousting pitch one of these days. It would be a crime to waste such natural talent."

After bidding them both good day, Tyrion continued on his journey, in a better mood than ever. It was so nice to have little Sam running around the Keep. Officially, of course, a Grand Maester was not supposed to have a family. But this was a brave new world, after all, and Tyrion was more than happy to ignore the dictations of tradition. With his head of yellow hair and merry giggles, Tyrion was reminded of Tommen and Myrcella when they were little, and everything had been so simple…

Once more, Tyrion chose not to cast his mind backward, for fear of ruining his good mood. Still whistling, he strolled down the last corridor which would take him to his destination. Without bothering to knock, he turned the brass knob of the final door, and pushed it open.

"You wanted to see me, Grand Maester-?"

"_NO_!"

Tyrion doubted that Samwell Tarly had ever moved so fast in his life. In a trice, he had thrown down the beaker of liquid he was holding, sprinted to the doorway, practically knocking Tyrion backward for the second time that morning, and slammed the door behind them both. He pulled the cloth he had tied around his mouth and nose down before he spoke.

"Don't…go in there." he panted, resting his gloved hands on his knees as he doubled over. His face looked rather red, sweat glistening on his brow. "You can't."

Tyrion blinked, more than a little surprised. "What in the world are you hiding in there? Whores?"

Sam rolled his eyes long-sufferingly-but he could not quite shake the glistening of dread that lurked within them. "I don't know if it is safe."

"Safe?" Tyrion frowned, beginning to feel concerned. "What do you mean, safe?"

Sam took his time straightening up. When he finally did so-he fixed Tyrion with a very grim stare. "You remember that Lady Carys was taken unwell at court?"

"Lady Carys?" Tyrion summoned the figure of the young woman to mind-the daughter of a lord of the Crownlands, always present at state occasions. She had attended the Falcon's Tourney, the wedding of the king and the prince, every feast and joust before and since. Tyrion had never spoken to her much, but found her extremely amiable. Perhaps, in a past life, he may have pursued her. She had a certain cat-like smile, a certain glint in her eyes…and a rear end one could have balanced a wine cup on… "She has not recovered?"

Darkly, Sam shook his head. He lowered his voice significantly, before leaning in closer to speak. "No. Nor do I think she will."

A sort of tugging sensation passed through Tyrion's gut. It was never easy to receive bad news, especially regarding one still in her prime. He swallowed hard, before continuing. "What ails her?"

"That's just it." Sam buried his hands in his pockets, looking most uneasy-and somewhat ashamed. "I don't know."

Hearing this, Tyrion frowned. "You don't know? Man, you have read more books than anyone I have ever met; that includes myself, and believe me-I am very stiff competition."

"_No one_ knows." Sam shook his head. "I have written to the Citadel, but they knew no more than I do. It is a mystery. And not the sort of mystery that I like."

Tyrion was more than a little disturbed. "So this could be something entirely new?"

"It is possible."

"May I see her?"

With extreme reservation, Sam opened the door of his laboratory, and took a step back.

If Tyrion had not been aware that he was looking at Lady Carys, he wasn't certain he would have known. Indeed, the woman who lay on the bed in the centre of the room was not recognisable as the happy, extroverted lady with her head of blonde curls bouncing along behind her at all. Her face was chalk white, with enormous purple bags beneath her eyes as if she had been punched twice in the face. But it was her neck that truly shocked Tyrion. What had once been a long, elegant throat was infiltrated with the most peculiar swollen masses, each a little larger than a chicken egg. The very sight of them sickened the Hand to his stomach. As he looked on, he noticed similar masses had sprung up all over her body; in her armpits, the bend of her knees, even miniature swellings on her fingers. However, that was not to say that the small lumps on her fingers were any less severe; in fact, it was quite the opposite. For the skin around them had blackened, as if submerged in soot, and died.

"By all the gods…" He had spoken the words without meaning to, and they took him entirely by surprise. At once, Sam shut the door, the resulting gust of air sending a ripple through his robes. Both men stood by, staring at the wood and trying desperately trying to comprehend what it was they had both seen-and neither could understand.

"I can't understand it." Sam said, voicing their mutual puzzlement. "I have never seen anything like it before!"

"No…Neither have I." Tyrion breathed. "I wish I wasn't seeing it now."

"What does this mean?" Sam tugged at the cloth which now hung around his neck. "It cannot be unique…" Suddenly, the fear in his eyes returned with a vengeance. "Do you think this could spread?"

"There is no way of knowing…" Tyrion was far too experienced to resort immediately to panic. Keeping his voice deliberately casual, he turned away from Sam, addressing no one in particular. "The real question is," he wondered aloud, scratching the tip of his chin. And he had been having such a nice morning… "Where did it come from?"


	2. Winterfell

**Hello! Thank you so much for reading, and especially to those who have fave-d, followed, and reviewed already! It is terribly kind of you. More tomorrow, hope you enjoy this chapter! xxx**

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_Winterfell_

* * *

Winterfell was even more overwhelming than Robin had imagined. For some reason, he had pictured it as a smaller version of the Eyrie, flat on the ground rather than up in the mountains-and, of course, sadly lacking a Moon Door. The real castle came as more than a surprise, with its high stone battlements and peculiar cylindrical towers. Every aspect of it was so ancient, and so strange, that even without some knowledge of its troubled history, he was certain he could have felt the restlessness in the air, a kind of quiet haunting. As they entered the Great Hall, accompanied by Ser Brienne of Tarth and Ser Podrick Payne of the kingsguard, Robin could almost feel ghostly fingers of the dead brushing his skin as he went. However, no matter how daunting the castle was, it paled in comparison to its queen.

Queen Sansa was as beautiful and red-headed as ever, standing tall in delicate shades of black and grey with a thin crown wound about her head. The moment a person saw her, two separate thoughts came to mind-how proudly she stood, with her back straight and her head high. By virtue of this, she needed no crown to announce her status. Additionally, one got the immediate impression of extreme competence; she had the experience of a ruler far beyond her years, and was shrouded in wisdom and intelligence. One was simply compelled to respect her. The first true Queen in the North, and she looked for all the world as though she had been born for it. Which, in a sense, she was.

Sansa watched from her throne as the southern royal party entered the hall, before rising gracefully to her feet to receive her guests. Her expression was, to Robin at least, utterly unreadable. This timeless beauty, this tower of strength, regarded the young king before her with solemn ceremony. Curled up at her feet on the stone floor, there lay a large, shaggy grey dog, which regarded the visitors with some distrust. The animal was not a direwolf by any means-but it was certainly reminiscent of one, and waited loyally for her mistress's command.

"Your Grace." she greeted Brandon, without any curtsey or display of respect-the North no longer recognised the authority of the Iron Throne.

"Your Grace." Brandon addressed her in return, his voice as cold and monotonous as ever. Again, he did not bend his head in the slightest, but continued to regard the queen with probing eyes, as if he were staring right into her.

"Your Grace." Robin, a mere prince rather than a king, bowed low to the Queen in the North. He could not help but feel extremely nervous. Sansa looked as if she had been queen for a thousand years. The presence of such a powerful woman, in the security of her own home, was more than a little intimidating.

Suddenly, before Robin had even fully straightened up; like the sun appearing from behind a cloud-the faintest hint of a smile crossed Sansa's face. As it did so, she appeared years younger. Extending her arms in a show of familiarity, she swept across the hall towards Brandon, her eyes bright. "Welcome home, little brother." Then, fiercely, she embraced him.

As he observed this reunion of siblings, Robin stood awkwardly by, trying to reconcile this accomplished queen with the sad, traumatized girl he remembered at the Eyrie. He had only been a child himself, and had not comprehended the full horror of what she had already been subjected to; witnessing the execution of her father; being tortured by the Lannisters; running from a false accusation of regicide. Things, he knew, had only grown worse from there…he could not begin to imagine how she was still standing upright, living and reigning. How could she find it within her to go on, instead of locking herself away in a tower and spending the rest of her days hiding, as he was certain he would have done in her shoes…it only made her all the more remarkable.

Brandon did not react in the slightest as he was hugged, not wrapping his arms around her in return or even leaning into her. However, Sansa was not insulted; she appeared to have expected nothing less. "It is good to see you."

"Yes." Brandon said quietly, his voice ever more distant. It was difficult to tell, but Robin could see that his husband was ill at ease. The reason for this was, as of yet, unclear. "I thank you for your welcome, and for your hospitality." he went on, fulfilling the obligations of duty. "As Queen in the North, you were by no means bound to accept-"

"_Bran_." said Sansa, straightening up, and smiling as she used his name. "We are Starks. And you will always be welcome at Winterfell."

"Thank you." Brandon said, his voice still devoid of emotion. But Sansa did not look offended in the slightest. Instead, she gave a small, indulgent smile-the sort of smile Robin often found himself making at some of Brandon's stranger behaviour. Perhaps Brandon himself even recognised it, because it seemed to remind him of why exactly they had made the journey in the first place.

"Your Grace," he began, retaining formality. "I am certain you remember my husband: Robert of House Arryn, Prince Consort of the Six Kingdoms."

This introduction, while word-perfect, came as something of a shock to Robin. Brandon did not even look at him as he spoke-and he called him by his given name-not Robin, but the far more clinical _Robert_. There was no hint of warmth in his tone, no splash of pride-nothing. For the first time in a long time, Robin felt as if they were strangers in the Sept of Baelor once more. But there was little time to dwell on such things now. For, finally, the Queen in the North's eyes had come to rest on Robin.

Sansa did not regard him coldly, but there was something guarded about her new smile. He could almost see his younger self playing out inside her mind, every shout, every flail, every brattish thing that ever left his lips…he felt his cheeks growing hot.

"Hello, Robin." she greeted him. "It has been so long. How you have grown."

"My queen." Robin bowed his head slightly, trying to show as much respect to his host as possible, and to subtly suggest to her that he was not that bratty child any longer. "How beautiful you have become. Not-not that you were not beautiful before! I mean-" He caught himself, stuttering over his words like a fool. "I only meant-"

"I understand that you must be weary from your long journey." Sansa cut in, with a tight, knowing nod. Once more, there was nothing unfriendly about her welcome-and yet, there was no true warmth. Robin could see, in her eyes, that he was still that spoiled child, and she was treating him as such. "I shall have you shown to your chamber, where you can sit before the fire for a while and catch your breath."

Robin felt utterly defeated-and alienated. He had only been at Winterfell for a few minutes, and already, he had made a mess of everything. How could he be so _stupid_?

"In the meantime," Sansa continued, turning back to Brandon with some relief. "I am certain my brother wishes to visit the crypt. I have made arrangements to ensure they are accessible for you." she respectfully assured him. "We will go together."

Robin looked at Brandon, waiting for some sign of support-perhaps he might insist that Robin be included on this excursion, or even that the visit could wait, and he would accompany Robin instead. But no such thing happened. Brandon merely nodded in obedience to his sister.

"Come, Lady." Sansa called back to her dog, before beginning to make her way out of the hall, escorted by a member of her own Northern queensguard. Instantly, the creature obeyed, scurrying devotedly after her, and giving Robin a most reproachful look with her cold, grey eyes as she passed. Robin felt a little wary of Lady-he had never been an animal lover, and big dogs such as this had frightened him as a child. Perhaps he was still frightened now. He was _definitely_ still frightened now.

"Ser Brienne," he said, turning slightly to face his lady commander. "If you would."

At once, Brienne turned Brandon's chair, and began to follow Sansa's lead. Robin heard her welcoming Brienne like an old friend, and caught her greeting to the newly created Ser Podrick, who looked more than elated at her attention. But, as the two siblings left the Great Hall, Robin was left alone with Pod in this unfamiliar and unnerving place. Watching his husband leave, after he had treated him so distantly, without even so much as a goodbye.

Why was Brandon acting strangely? Well, he _always_ acted strangely these days, but the air of something bothering him was obvious to anyone who knew him well. Perhaps, then, only to Robin. So why, then, was Brandon so quick to leave him behind?

For the sake of the gods, their second wedding was to take place the next evening. The wedding they had both looked forward to for months, the wedding that was to cement their love for one another after all the trials of their early marriage. But, at that moment, Brandon was not behaving as if he loved him at all.

* * *

"And?" Tyrion did not need to look up from his desk to know to whom he had just permitted entry.

"No."

Samwell Tarly did not need to elaborate. He had removed his gloves already, and there was a certain hunch of his shoulders that announced his defeat.

Tyrion raised his head, and regarded the bright lights of Kings Landing, candles in every window, that were visible from the tower of the Hand. There was an acute sadness in his gut as he thought of Lady Carys-the way she laughed, the way she danced, the way her hair bounced on her shoulders…but his mind was not given over entirely to the now dead young woman lying below. Absent-mindly, he fingered the multitude of papers on his desk: reports from all over the capitol, each more troubling than the next…

"I fear, Grand Maester," he began. "that these things have scarcely yet begun. Send a raven to the king-he will have reached Winterfell by now." He paused, clearing his throat. "And burn everything that came into contact with Lady Carys."


	3. Ghosts

**Hello, all! Thank you so, so much for reading this, and especially to those who have favourited, followed, and reviewed! I appreciate every last one of you. More tomorrow, hope you enjoy! xxx**

* * *

"I think about him all the time…"

Sansa looked straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the stone-carved face of the father she had once known. No matter how many years Ned Stark lay resting down here-perhaps only now as fragments of bone and dust-Winterfell still felt empty without him. He had been such a presence-a monument to honour and morality far greater than his monument beneath the ground.

By her side, Brandon sat, gazing pensively on at the tomb. He had not spoken for the duration of their visit.

There they were. Two middle children of the House Stark, one queen of their ancestral homeland, the other a king of the south. Each of them had spent their childhood in the castle above, one stitching away inside, the other attempting to shoot arrows in the courtyard. Neither could ever have guessed where they would wind up. Certainly, if Sansa had been told what fate had in store for her little brother, she would never have believed it in a thousand years…Perhaps not even his ascension to the throne; that seemed wildly more possible than…well. This.

Sansa had yet to grow accustomed to the odd effect of Brandon's existence. It was as if a stranger wore his face, spoke with his voice…but, inside, there was scarcely anything of her little brother left at all. She had grieved him like she would a death. Bran Stark was gone.

Still. It was not as if Sansa had remained unchanged by the years.

"And Mother." she continued, giving a small, regretful sigh. "How bad-tempered I could be with them. I never meant any of it, not really. I wish I could take it all back…"

Once more, Brandon retained his silence. But Sansa knew that he was listening.

"I come here often. Just to sit with him awhile." She paused, her heart ever heavier in her chest. "And Rickon. Sometimes, I swear I can hear his little feet hammering on the floors above me, running around after Shaggydog." A small, pathetic laugh bubbled out of her as she remembered. "…Robb ought to be here too. It is so unjust." With another sigh, she cast her eyes back toward the stone visage of Ned Stark. "But I like to think that he is here. In spirit, or some form; however one might linger after death. This is our home. Where we all belong."

After a short period of silent contemplation…at long last, Brandon opened his mouth.

"Being here makes me feel as if I never should have left."

Sansa looked down at her brother in some surprise. As she studied his pale face, those cold, harsh eyes that seemed to stare straight into her soul…she saw something that must once have resembled discomfort. Brandon could never look truly easy-there was far too much going on beneath that fringe for that. But now, he looked more troubled than ever.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have." Sansa chose her words carefully, waiting for him to say more.

"I feel that I am still so much of the North…" Brandon murmured to her, looking into her eyes. His voice had become more misty and aloof than ever. "I feel it in my blood. I had to come here, to be certain. To hear it more clearly."

Sansa could not help but raise an eyebrow. Of course. Brandon would never come to visit just because he wanted to see his sister. Not anymore. Never again.

"It is almost as if the land beyond the Wall is calling to me," he went on, not noticing her attitude. "It wants me to return, to tell me more of the secrets of the world. My Sight is still in its infancy. There is so much more to learn…"

Sansa waited. These were matters she could never understand. Matters she never _wanted_ to understand. She was a queen-not a mystic.

Brandon stared up at her for a moment more, his expression completely unreadable. Then, at long last…he seemed to return to normal. Well. _His_ normal. "But I know I should not go…The kingdoms need me now. Besides," He paused. "I do not think I could leave Robin."

"Yes," Finally back on tangible ground, Sansa gave a small snort. "If you left for any significant period of time, that is one Prince Consort I certainly would not want as regent."

At this statement-the intensity of Brandon's gaze increased once more. "Why not?"

Sansa rolled her eyes, giving her brother a knowing look that was tinged with sympathy. "I know what it is to have to marry someone one would not choose." Although, despite everything, she had begun to look back on Tyrion Lannister almost fondly…He had not been the worst of them. Not by a world…

"I chose Robin."

Sansa was glad of a reason to cast her mind away from the past. She looked down at Brandon, who had the most curious look in his eyes.

"Yes. You chose the Vale, and it was a wise decision." She gave another sardonic smile. "There was a time when _I _was supposed to marry him…It is rather strange that it would up being you."

"I am glad it did." Brandon breathed distractedly.

"So am I." Sansa giggled, letting out a great deal of air from between her teeth. Goodness, she could not imagine being welded to the disgusting little creature she had met at the Eyrie so long ago. How stupid he was, how repulsive, how spoiled and obtuse…She had no idea how the new Brandon could stand it.

And yet…he did not seem to be sharing in her joke.

Hurriedly, she moved on.

"How fares Jon?"

"Well." Brandon answered simply.

"And Arya?" she asked, somewhat more anxiously.

"Very well."

Sansa felt a wonderful, warm sense of relief flooding her veins. To know that all of her remaining siblings-in whose number she still counted Jon-endured and had their health was all she could ask for.

"And you? Are you happy, little brother?"

Brandon thought for a long moment before he answered. "I am not much of anything at all. But if I remember what it was to be happy, then I live in that memory."

"A simple "Yes" would have done…" Sansa muttered darkly. She was not truly frustrated, however. "But that is all I want. Your happiness. It is not as if we have much left."

"We have everything we were supposed to have."

In silence, the Stark siblings gazed up into the face of their father once more.

* * *

It was with a contented heart that Brandon arrived at his chamber at Winterfell; a specially furnished ground-floor room, with a large fireplace and a bed strewn with the warmest of furs. It was a relief to escape to his own space, to try to rid his mind for a while of all the dilemmas his return to the North had brought him. It was as if, from far beyond the Wall, soft, inaudiable voices were calling out to him in ancient tongues…compelling him to chase their answers…

But now, for a while at least, he could give his mind over entirely to what remained of his humanity.

Robin was sitting beside the fire, his chair as close to the flames as safety would allow. His face was illuminated by the firelight, softening his features into something almost ethereal. As Brienne pushed him into the room, he allowed himself simply look at him for a moment, drinking him in. Robin's beauty continued to take him by surprise. A wave of love washed over him as he thanked every god there was that he was his. Robin was an oasis in a turbulent world.

"Oh," Robin's voice had an acute edge to it as Brienne closed the door behind her, taking her place outside the door to guard her king. "You have returned." the prince drawled, raising an eyebrow. "How considerate of you."

"Yes." Brandon agreed-before frowning slightly. "Is something wrong?"

"I think you know that something is wrong," Robin said, leaning forward. "You know _everything_, after all."

"…Have _I _done something wrong?"

"Got it in one." Robin clapped his hands together sarcastically, wearing a rather tired expression. He stared at Brandon, as if expecting an apology. For exactly what, Brandon did not yet know.

"Would you care to enlighten me?"

"Isn't it glaringly obvious?" Robin snapped. He gestured wildly around him, indicating the entirety of Winterfell. "You abandoned me in a strange place!"

"You were not abandoned. You had Podrick."

"But you quite happily left me." Robin accused, folding his arms and scowling. "What was I supposed to think?"

"To visit my father's grave." Brandon reminded him.

"Yes-but-oh _Brandon_!" Robin let out a sigh of exasperation. "If you do not know, then I cannot explain it to you." He turned away from Brandon, facing the flames once again and looking extremely annoyed.

Brandon was, as always, caught off-guard. He was genuinely befuddled by Robin's anger, and often struggled to find the cause of it. The root of the problem was generally something so petty, something that never touched the edges of his vast mind. "How am I supposed to know if you cannot explain why you are upset?"

Sighing once again, Robin cast a rather desperate look at his husband, his large eyes beseeching. "I just wish…I just…" He swallowed, before beginning what was a speech he had plainly rehearsed in his head before Brandon had appeared. "You brought me here, practically to the top of the world, to wed you for a second time before your Weirwood tree in the sight of the old gods. You protest that this means everything to you; to beg the blessing of the gods of your father. And yet, in the Great Hall, you treated me like…like an arrangement, once again." Now, he looked almost shrunken. Like a lost child. "As if I was someone you had been obliged to marry. As if…as if you had no affection for me at all." He had to swallow hard as his voice threatened to crack.

Brandon was more than shocked by this revelation. "Robin-" he began, shaking his head.

"The way your sister was looking at me…" Robin whined, his cheeks turning a delicate shade of pink. "Like I was something to be ashamed of." His eyes glistened with sadness as he put the next question directly to the king. "_Are_ you ashamed of me? Are you-?"

"_Robin_." Brandon held up a hand to stop his mouth. He considered his words carefully, before he spoke.

"Robin. I encourage you in general to be more cynical. I am certain your politics would benefit from it. Please, doubt everything in the world. Doubt that the stars are made of fire, doubt that the sun moves in the sky. Doubt in all you observe. But never, never doubt in my love."

The words hung in the air for a long moment after they had been uttered. Robin took them in slowly, letting every word wash over him. Now, the pink tinge on his cheeks turned positively peony.

"It would have been discourteous to go against Sansa's suggestions in her own home, where we are guests. You are always telling me that I overlook common courtesies. But if you feel that you were overlooked, I apologise, and assure you that it was not deliberate."

Finally, Robin nodded quietly, getting to his feet. Looking most remorseful, he crossed the room until he was face to face with his husband. Then, he took his hands in his. "…We are getting better at this whole marriage business." he said, giving a small, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I know you love me. As I love you." He bent down, and kissed Brandon's forehead, lingering for as long as he could.

As the tension diffused from the room, Brandon was more than satisfied with his handling of the situation. Robin was right; they were learning how to look after each other. He did not quite relate to Robin's need for verbal comfort, for touch, for constant assurances of love…but he certainly did not mind giving it. In fact, it was one of his greatest pleasures.

"I am glad I can go back to looking forward to our wedding again," Robin was saying, kissing him again as excitement crept back into his tone. "I cannot wait to take you as my husband again…And to kiss you properly when it is official…"

"The ceremony does not traditionally include a kiss." Brandon informed him, his tone as flat as ever.

"Well." Robin grinned at him, stroking his hair. "I am going to kiss you anyway."

_This _was his greatest pleasure. His own dear Robin.

"My love, I will not stop you."

For now, at least, the world could wait...


	4. The Old Gods

**Hello all! Sorry to post so late in the day-I will post at a more sociable hour tomorrow. Thank you for sticking with me! Sadly, this is only half the chapter I wanted to post today, so you'll get the other half tomorrow. Many apologies for being so useless! **

**Thank you, once again, so much for reading, and especially to those who have favourited, followed, and reviewed! I am so grateful to each and every one of you. More tomorrow, hope you enjoy this xxx**

* * *

The sickness spread through the capitol with all the speed and intensity of wildfire.

At first, perhaps a few dozen people had lay sick, coughing and spluttering as their very skin exploded with swollen masses that brought behind them the blackness of death. Then, without reason, without rhyme, without the slightest hint of mercy…the numbers began to climb. Before Lady Carys' death, almost fifty of the common people had choked out their last breaths upon their modest deathbeds. Scattered cases, all over the city, of course…but soon, as the claws of death dug ever deeper, hungry for nothing but blood, there were more than enough to cause a stir. And, wherever there was a stir…panic followed behind.

Where had it come from? In the minds of the smallfolk, who held their loved ones in their arms as they died the most horrible of deaths, there was only one answer.

Such a plague, such a relentless sickness unleashed upon the people of Kings Landing, could only be divine punishment from the gods.

Samwell Tarly's raven, bearing dark words beneath its wings, flew Northward in haste.

* * *

The evening of evenings had arrived-and yet, for all the world, it felt like the opposite of a wedding. To Robin, a wedding meant a Sept, songs and prayers to the Seven, grand dresses, and an enormous pie, followed by an evening of partying and entertainment. It was loud, noisy, and busy, bustling with bodies and all a tremendous fuss. This Northern wedding, in the sight of the Old Gods, was the antithesis of their first.

Robin remembered waking up extremely early on the day of the royal wedding, standing for what felt like hours and trying not to yawn as he was brushed and polished to within an inch of his life; he was to become a prince before the eyes of all six kingdoms, and he had to look the part. He remembered his stiff new clothes, new boots that rubbed, making him feel all the more like an actor on stage, required to wear a costume and play a character. Certainly, there had been much performing needed that day-he had to smile when he wanted to frown, to hold hands when he wanted to run, to kiss when it turned his stomach…

How different tonight would be. No new clothes. No Seven. No crowd of strangers. Just him…and his Brandon.

The excitement as the sky began to turn pink, and the hour of the wedding drew closer, was almost too much to bear. Robin found himself scarcely able to eat, practically quivering with anticipation through dinner. There was wine offered, but he did not touch it, slowly sipping a cup of water; he wanted to have a perfect recollection of this joyous night.

He changed, of course, and ran a comb through his hair, but there was no pressure. He wore his own clothes; shades of blue and grey from the Vale, clothes that he was comfortable in, clothes that _were_ him. A falcon brooch generally held his cloak in place on his chest-but tonight, he had traded it for a raven. Brandon would never notice-but his heart glowed every time he looked at it.

The new raven brooch was the extent of his decoration; he needed no riches, no glittering jewels. The crown he had worn in the Sept had felt hideously heavy on his head. Now, there was no obligation to be a prince, even a lord. Tonight, he was just a human. A human in love with another human (albeit a somewhat supernatural one), who were marrying for no other reason than love.

Love. That rarest and most dangerous occupation.

At longest last, it was time. With Ser Podrick following close behind, guarding his prince, Robin began to walk towards the rest of his life. And it was all he could do not to break into a sprint.

Stepping out into the frigid night air, he almost lost his breath as he saw the glow of the torches which lit the way to the Godswood. The sight of it, the way it made him feel, knowing that waiting for him beneath the Weirwood tree was the love of his life…not even a dream could achieve such heaven.

_This_ was their wedding. Their true wedding. The one they had been supposed to have…

* * *

"I take this man."

"I take this man."

Beneath the Northern stars, in the torchlight, Sansa watched as her brother swore himself to Robin Arryn for the second time. She was among the only witnesses to the wedding; Ser Brienne and Ser Podrick, along with several members of her own personal guard, stood by, but it was only she who had nothing to do but observe. And observe she did.

Sansa was not a woman who was easily shocked. Not anymore. But what she saw beneath the godswood that night, before the ancient Weirwood tree, stunned her right to the core.

Robin was plainly close to tears. There was the strangest look upon his face -it was as if he was coming to the end of a long and difficult journey, and now, the weight of his own emotion was too much to bear. As he looked down at Brandon, the smallest hint of a wobbly smile spread over his cheeks. But his eyes were deadly serious.

"I love you, Brandon Stark." His voice, high with passion, rang through the silence of the night.

Brandon showed no sign of such drama, sitting quietly and staring out with those haunting eyes. And yet…there was a certain aura about him that Sansa could not place. A certain…completion.

"As I love you."

The response was free from expression, delivered objectively and without sentiment. But Brandon's own personal brand of absolute honesty was near earth-shaking. And, all at once, moments after the words were spoken…their lips met.

Sansa was unsure how she felt as she watched her brother kiss the boy she had found so revolting. It was not the fact that they were kissing, and how bizarre it was in itself to watch the new Brandon do something as human as kiss; it was the _way_ that they kissed. It was as if the rest of the world had melted away, leaving them in a world that was entirely their own. Despite the coldness of the night, they existed in a state of comfortable warmth, each the other's torch.

She had taken Brandon's marriage to the Vale as a political match, and nothing more. But there was nothing political about this night.

How strange it was to hear Brandon, in that flat, monotonous voice, speak a sentence as tender as _I love you_. It was akin to seeing a dog walk on its hind legs; unnatural, and slightly disturbing. In the back of her mind…to her shame, Sansa could not help but feel a little jealous. How could Brandon show such affection to his new husband, a person who had been in his life for less than a year…and yet, he could show none to her. If he was so changed as the Three Eyed Raven, how could he kiss Robin in such a heart-wrenchingly beautiful way, and yet he could not bear to hug his own sister?

It did not matter, she told herself firmly, clenching her jaw. She was far too world-weary, far too wise to be truly upset by such a trivial thing. Brandon was the only brother, save Jon, she had left. And if Robin Arryn could give him any semblance of happiness, then she would find it in herself to be happy for him. She may not understand…but perhaps, she did not need to.

At last, the kiss broke. But neither Robin nor Brandon pulled away. Instead, still enveloped in their own little world, Robin pressed his forehead to Brandon's, closing his eyes. He let out several small, shuddering breaths, still choked with emotion, in stark contrast to Brandon's tranquillity. A single tear rolled down his cheek. Then, as the night wind whispered through the trees, heavy with the blessings of the old gods, he collapsed into Brandon's arms.


	5. Sweetrobin

**Hello all! Thank you so much for reading, and especially to those who have faved, followed, and reviewed! I really appreciate every last one of you. This is the other half of yesterday's chapter, so I hope you enjoy! More tomorrow xxx**

**SPOILER: Things are about to get intense...**

* * *

Waking up in the North was a vastly different experience to waking up in the capitol. Ordinarily, Robin opened his eyes to the glare of the morning sun streaming in through the curtains. It served to dispel sleep from him quickly, energising him for the day ahead. However, in the North, the morning sun was far weaker, creeping in almost apologetically and dappling the room in a gentle glow. Although it was rather beautiful, coupled with the cold, it made willing oneself to get out of bed into a Herculean task.

Particularly this morning.

Robin awoke slowly, still half-dreaming, his eyes half-closed. The first thing he registered was the juxtaposition of the coolness on his exposed face, and the warmth that enveloped the rest of his body beneath the Northern furs. Of course, the furs were not the sole source of heat.

Perhaps it was purely due to the cold, but Robin found that he had burrowed even closer into his husband than he normally did. Brandon always slept on his back, and did not move throughout the course of the night, and so Robin tucked himself in around him, resting his head in the curve of Brandon's neck and holding him close like a child with a comfort blanket. He had always loathed sleeping alone, and always slept better in someone's arms. Especially those that belonged to his Brandon.

Sheer happiness enveloped him from the top of his head to the soles of his feet as he recalled the events of the previous evening. The frosty night, the star-strewn sky…the face of the Weirwood tree watching as he swore himself to his husband once again; this time, with all his heart. Then afterward, just as gloriously, they had returned to their chamber to experience a true wedding night…

Without opening his eyes, he snuggled closer, and kissed the first patch of skin he could reach on Brandon's shoulder.

"Good morning." came the flat tones of the king. By the clarity of his voice, he had already been awake for some time. The arm that was wrapped around Robin's shoulders tightened, the fingers gently stroking the top of his arm. This tiny show of affection was enough to set Robin's heart aglow all over again. As he forced his eyes open, to look up at the face of his husband, he noticed that those dark eyes, normally so harsh and unforgiving, were still softened by the night's sleep, and regarded him with something that resembled true warmth.

"Good morning." Robin whispered back, croaking slightly. As he looked at him, he could not help but smile. "_Husband_."

Although Brandon did not smile back, he looked as though he wanted to. "Quite." He turned his head, and kissed Robin's hair, lingering far longer than necessary. When he finally lifted his head, his voice took on a rather formal tone. "I must thank you, Robin, from the bottom of my heart, for last night. It meant the world to me to bring you before the gods of my father, gods that you do not keep, and to wed you before a Weirwood tree. I hope you understand that you have made me the happiest person alive."

_Tell your face_, Robin thought-but not maliciously so. Brandon's strangeness, while initially disarming, now felt as comfortable as their bed of furs. Instead, he snuggled closer into his husband, giving a playful giggle. "The happiest person alive?" he teased him.

"I know myself to be so." Brandon's honesty was almost ingenuous. "No one else in the world has, or will ever have, you."

"I didn't have you down at the possessive sort." Although he feigned coolness, Robin was lapping up the attention like a cat with cream, savouring every word.

"You ought to have." Brandon's voice took on the slightest hint of teasing itself-although the tightening of his arm around Robin suggested the opposite. "You are mine."

"From this day, until the end of your days…" Robin purred, leaning up to kiss him again. "I think I like possessive Bran."

"What man would not feel possessive if they held you?" Brandon murmured, his eyes becoming rather intense. "You are…" He paused, searching for the perfect word…before giving up. "Beyond description..." he breathed, burying his fingers in Robin's hair.

"Well," Robin giggled again, basking in the admiration. "You are my husband, and my king. Who am I to argue with you? And I think you are pretty wonderful yourself…"

It was not a smile, but it was dangerously close. "How did my path in life ever lead me to you?" Brandon's question did not require an answer as he looked adoringly at the prince. "My sweet Robin…"

At this-Robin pulled away abruptly, taking half the furs with him. "_Sweetrobin_?" he exclaimed in shock.

"Oh-" Brandon was confused for half a moment-before realising. "No. I didn't mean-"

Memories of Alyssa Stone flashed through Robin's mind like pictures in a book. "You are the only person in my life who has never called me Sweetrobin!"

"I didn't." Brandon protested. "I said "My. Sweet. Robin." Three words."

"Don't!" Robin spluttered-though he had already lay back down and was smoothing the furs over them once more. "It's creepy."

"Alright," Brandon gave a stiff nod, wrapping his arm around him once more. "Just as you would have it. Anything for my…Robin."

"That's right, darling," Robin agreed, kissing him so quickly that their lips scarcely touched. "Anything for me. Now, I know we ought to rise, but I cannot bear to face the cold. I want to stay beneath these furs a little longer, and pretend that we are somewhere where the sun shines."

"Yes." Once more, the ghost of a smile danced across Brandon's face. Then, as Robin snuggled into him once more, and closed his eyes…a slight edge cut into the young king's tone. Somehow, his voice became distant and pensive, as if he were speaking from a long way away. If Robin had not been so blissfully content, he may have caught, in the depths of his husband's tone, a certain subtle sense of foreboding. "I am not ready to let you go…"


	6. The Raven Scroll

**Hello all! I'm so, so sorry for being so crappy and not posting yesterday! I am truly the worst. Thank you so much for sticking with me anyway-I appreciate every single one of you. More tomorrow, hope you enjoy! xxx**

* * *

The streets of Kings Landing had begun to flood with the moans of the sick and dying-and, not long after that, there followed the bodies. Those who had no home simply died where they lay, drowning in their own sweat and bodily fluids on the cobblestone pavements. Citizens were dying far quicker than anyone could keep up with-least of all the facilities for disposal of the dead. Burial grounds were forced to close their gates due to the sudden influx of the recently deceased; and with that, the smell of decaying flesh in the hot sun became stifling.

Observance and attendance surrounding devotion to the gods-_any_ gods, any deity who might be listening-increased tenfold with every hour. Even the staunchest of non-believers were turning their eyes skywards and crying out a single question as their families died around them: _why? Why? Why?_

* * *

"This…pestilence." Sansa sat upright in her chair, an expression of concern clouding her face. She regarded her guests with some fierceness. "How can I be certain that you have not brought it up to my kingdom with you?"

In the centre of the table, Samwell Tarly's raven scroll lay like an unexploded bomb.

"If a single one of your people has fallen sick, I take full responsibility." came the misty tones of Brandon from the other side. "But I know that you will find none."

"This is _horrible_!" Robin exclaimed, unable to contain his feelings for a moment longer. His hands were clammy, his skin pale, as if he too had contracted some kind of illness-only his was terror. Imagines kept flashing through his mind-everyone at home in the Red Keep, every lord, every lady he had ever come into contact with, his people all over the city-and especially those in Flea Bottom…all of them were at risk from this awful mystery sickness. Worse still; Robin was far, far away from them, and there was nothing he could do to help them. Turning his head to one side so sharply that it was a wonder his neck did not crack, he put an accusation to his omniscient husband. "Did you know about this?"

Brandon was silent for a moment, not meeting Robin's eye, before he answered. He looked coolly professional in this time of a crisis in public health, but perhaps this was merely his natural expression. It was impossible to tell how he truly felt. "I knew."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Robin was appalled-and rather hurt. "I would have thought this was the kind of information one ought to share with one's consort!"

Once more, Brandon did not respond straight away. He turned his head, finally looking straight at Robin, catching him in that penetrating gaze. "You were so happy…" was all he said.

Robin opened his mouth, trying to find words to protest further…before he closed his lips, sitting back. He remembered the wonder of their wedding, the unbridled joy he had shared with the love of his life…as much as Robin was a prince of the people, and ought to put their needs first, he could not help but feel secretly grateful. It was selfish, and he knew it-but still, he could find it in him to complain. Brandon was generally so indifferent, and so for him to put Robin's feelings first was momentous.

"The maesters cannot discover what caused the outbreak, and therefore can make no logical attempt at a cure," Brandon was saying, having turned back to his sister. "The city is in a critical condition. I estimate that hundreds will be dead come the end of the matter. Perhaps thousands."

"Well-" Sansa began, before-

"_Thousands_?" Robin cried, cutting her off. "That's-that's-" He did not have the vocabulary to accurately express his dismay. "Never mind all that. How can we stop it?" he asked, getting straight to the point.

"We cannot." Brandon's dispassionate tone sounded like a death toll. "Even I have never seen the like of this before. It must burn itself out."

"Burn itself out on our people?" Robin gaped at his husband in horror. "I will not allow it! There must be something we can do! We could evacuate the city-"

"No," Sansa supported her brother straight away, thinking of the North. "That would only spread it to the rest of the Crownlands. Perhaps even other kingdoms. And then, who knows what sort of epidemic Westeros might experience?"

"I will not let our people simply sit and wait to die!" Robin could not believe what he was hearing from the Stark siblings. He could still see every one of the faces he knew in Flea Bottom, the faces of those who would surely be most at risk-the orphans, their Septa, all the workers who had built the Robin's Nest well…his blood had already begun to boil. "We must return to Kings Landing, and-"

But Brandon held up a black-gloved hand to stop his tongue. The slightest hint of uneasiness crossed his face. He looked down at the raven scroll, and steeled himself. "Grand Maester Tarly has advised you and I to stay away from the capitol, until the danger passes."

A short silence fell over the room. Sansa looked up in surprise, casting a very cutting glance at her brother; that he would even think such a thing as a king was almost unforgivable. At the idea that they would desert their people in this most crucial of periods, Robin too felt most disappointed in his husband.

"We cannot do that!" His voice leapt up an octave in shock. "I will not allow it! We must return to our people-"

But once more, Brandon silenced him with a single look. He turned to his sister, clenching his jaw, with the air of a man about to deliver some bad news. "I am not inclined to heed Tarly's wishes. I intend to return home almost immediately."

Robin could not hide his relief. He felt guilty for his lack of faith in his husband-of course, dear Bran would not leave their people to languish. Besides-Robin wasn't certain that Bran was even still vulnerable to somethings as human as disease…

"Good," he said, letting out the breath he had been holding since the Brandon had first produced the raven scroll. "Good. So when we return, we can begin-"

For the final time, Brandon stopped Robin's mouth-this time, with the slightest shake of his head. Those eyes had taken on an even stranger aura. At once, Robin was reminded of the way that those eyes had regarded him that morning-so softly, so lovingly…and now, in Brandon's own, subtle way…they were filled with grief.

"You did not allow me to finish." he said, his voice very loaded. "I specified only that I would return."

"Bran?" Robin frowned, a sense of foreboding filling his gut. "…What are you saying?"

"Your health has always been delicate," Brandon said, speaking as if to an unpredictable cat. "I will not put you knowingly in harm's way. You shall not return to Kings Landing until the pestilence has passed."

This time, Robin could not hold back. He barely registered being touched by his husband's concern for him-there was only his anger, his boiling blood, and a distinct feeling of betrayal. "You cannot be serious." he hissed-before rage overtook him. "You cannot be serious! You mean to go home without me?"

"Sansa," Brandon began, ignoring Robin's outburst. Across the table, Sansa looked up from where she had been awkwardly staring at the wall, not wanting to be caught in the middle of a couple's disagreement. "If you would be so good as to agree to allow Robin to stay on at Winterfell, you would have my eternal gratitude. If not, and you are well within your rights to refuse, I will have Lord Edmure host him at Riverrun."

"Hold on one moment!" Robin objected, more furious by the second. "Do you mind not talking about me as if I am not here! _Bran_," He turned to him, his cheeks growing pink, his eyes threatening to fill with hot tears of injustice. "I am Prince Consort of the Six Kingdoms. Those people in the capitol are as much mine as yours, and I care about their welfare just as much! If not _more_! I am-"

"You are my husband," Brandon's calmness was absolute as he turned back to Robin, that hint of morning softness returning to his eyes. If Sansa had not been there, Robin was prepared to bet that Brandon would have reached out and taken his hand. "I cannot lose you. You are far too precious to me."

"I will not be separated from you!" Robin shouted, springing to his feet. "When you left me in the Eyrie, I was half-mad for the lack of you! To watch you leave me again is more than my heart can bear. I will _not _let you go!"

"It is decided, Robin." Brandon said, apparently unmoved by this eruption. "You will stay away, until it is safe."

Robin could not bring himself to say another word. Brimming with ire and betrayal, he fled the room, letting the door bang shut behind him.

* * *

The silence Robin left behind was deafening. Sansa clenched and unclenched her knees below her skirts, feeling more than a little uneasy. However, she remained upright, never wishing to show the slightest bit of weakness.

"Will you keep him?" Brandon seemed unaffected by his husband's walk-out-indeed, he had probably known it was going to happen before it did so. The true extent of his powers had never been made clear. Still, he seemed preoccupied with only one thing-Robin's wellbeing. It was more than jarring to watch.

"Robin is my brother by law." she said, studying the young king carefully. "His mother took me in once when I had nowhere else to go. Of course he can stay here."

"Thank you." Brandon responded at once.

A short silence followed.

Sansa wondered if she dared ask. Something had been playing on her mind for some time, and now seemed like the opportune moment. For the sake of the gods, she was a queen, and if she could not ease her curiosity, what could she do?

"This…marriage." she queried, choosing her words carefully. "Is it…" A pause. "Well. If this is all a performance, I commend you."

At this, Brandon's head jerked slightly. "A performance?"

"I could not be sure." Sansa explained. "I understand how popular Robin is with the common people. A good relationship-at least in public-with one's consort can be vital to holding the kingdoms together. It's just…" She covered a slight snort of derision. "I did not have you down as the pretending type. You may have proved to be rather good at it."

Brandon did not look insulted as such-but he didn't _not_ look like it either. "You are suggesting that I am fabricating my affection for Robin?"

Sansa raised one eyebrow. "You must admit that it does not seem outside of the realms of possibility. This…affection." The word stuck in her throat. "It is rather at odds with all I have seen of you, since you became the…" She narrowed her eyes slightly. "Three-Eyed Raven."

"On the contrary." Brandon seemed unfazed. He spoke with his own personal brand of frank honesty, regarding Sansa with those piercing dark eyes that seemed to look right into her. "I love Robin with all my heart."

To hear the words spoken by a person such as Brandon was almost amusing. Sansa could barely keep a straight face. Still, now, she could not help but think that her brother, her strange, solemn little brother might actually be genuine…

"If that is the case," she said, coughing slightly in the last throws of disbelief. "Robin has as much of a home here as you do." She paused, hardly able to force the words out-but she knew that it was the right thing to say. "He is one of us now."


	7. An Arrow

**Hello everyone! I am so, so sorry for missing another post yesterday. I am truly the worst. Thank you all so much for sticking with me, and I PROMISE there will be more tomorrow. I am so excited about what is to come next, and I hope I haven't let you down too badly. Much love, and hope you enjoy xxx**

* * *

Knock.

"Robin? It is I."

Brandon sat outside the chamber door, staring at the wood and waiting for a response. Behind him, Ser Podrick stood by, his expression carefully blank and professional-but there was a certain trepidatious look in his eyes. It was plain to anyone who knew him well that his mind was on the last time Brandon had tried to "save" Robin from danger, as he was attempting to do so now. On that occasion…for the first time since the Dragon Queen, Drogon's spreading wings had blocked out the sun over Westeros…

"Go away!" came a stubborn, whining voice from inside. "I don't want to talk to you!"

Quietly, Brandon cleared his throat. He considered the person he loved above all else, on the other side of the door and suddenly furious with him. Robin had probably thrown himself onto their bed, and was lying face-down on the furs, his head buried in his arms. He always did play into the drama of it all…Brandon could not help but feel almost fond.

"That is understandable." he said, keeping his voice level. "But I would very much like to talk to you, and I would rather not do so through a door. If you would allow me to-"

"No!" Robin cried, sounding most frustrated. "I don't want to hear it!"

Brandon took a deep breath: in, and then, slowly, out. "I know you are upset." he began. "But what you must understand is-"

"Who gave you the right to make such decisions on my behalf without even consulting me first?" Robin argued, his voice echoing around the chamber. For all his protestations that he did not want to talk to him, he certainly had a lot to say. "You cannot just tell me where I am to go, and what I am to do, and expect me to obey you without question! I know you are my king, but you are also my husband, and we are supposed to work together!" There was a pause, and Robin appeared to catch his breath. When he spoke again, his tone had become rather thick. "I will not-will _not_-let you leave me again. I _can't_."

To hear Robin on the verge of tears hurt Brandon deeply. He cast his gaze downward for a few moments, wishing that he could make Robin see how important he was to him, how vital he was to holding the kingdoms together-how the very thought of him being harmed in any way was enough to send a sensation through Brandon's entire body that was akin to falling from the tower all over again…only then, he did not stop falling.

"My love," he murmured, lowering his voice. He tried to sound as gentle as he possibly could; not like the Three-Eyed Raven, but like Bran Stark. "Please open the door."

Perhaps Robin too had realised how ridiculous it was for them to have such an important conversation through a door. For, after a few moments of silence, Brandon heard the sound of him slipping from the bed, and his boots on the stone floor as he crossed the room. Then, slowly and hesitantly, the door creaked open.

"Give us the room, Ser Podrick." Brandon said as he pushed him into the chamber. He did not look back as Pod excused himself from the room, and took up his position outside to guard. He only had eyes for his husband; whose own eyes looked dangerously full.

Robin did not speak until the door clicked shut, leaving them alone together. He sat down on the foot of their bed, and folded his arms, staring directly over Brandon's head, determined not to meet his gaze.

"Go on then," he dared him, his tone filled with distain. "Say something clever. Something about how you know what is best for me, and stupid little Sweetrobin couldn't possibly have anything meaningful to contribute. Just like Alyssa Stone, and Yohn Royce, and-"

"You know that is not what I meant." Brandon cut him off. "You know I do not think of you in that way. Every word that comes out of your mouth is valued, and I appreciate each one you share with me. I mean it." he said, when Robin gave a dismissive snort. "I would never lie to you. I could not."

At this, Robin showed some signs of comprehension. He knew that Brandon was incapable of lying. Perhaps it was the influence of the ancient magic that ran through his veins…or perhaps it was simply because he was Ned Stark's son.

"This must be so, Robin," he continued, keeping his voice as soft as he could possibly achieve. Total honesty would be his policy. "As much as my heart protests, I must be a king. I must not desert my people in this time of crisis. To my endless grief, I must put their needs before those of the one I love most in the world. But I am what I am."

"What does that matter?" Robin snapped, still hurting.

"You know my position as well as you know your own." Brandon reminded him patiently. "This is out of our hands."

"That is not the point! You mean to leave me!" Robin blinked hard as tears threatened to course down his cheeks. "You would leave me here, a stranger in a strange land, with your sister, who cannot stand me!"

"That is not true." said Brandon instantly, thinking of his previous conversation with Sansa. He paused-then leaned forward slightly, fixing Robin with the most intense stare of his life. "And were it my decision, I would keep you by my side constantly for the rest of my days. Until the stars burn out to ash, and the sun itself falls from the sky, and as long as there is air in my lungs. But I am a king. That means that sometimes, I must ignore my own heart."

"Do you still have a heart?" Robin scoffed; though he did not truly mean it.

"Of course I have one." Brandon responded, not insulted as much as upset, though he did not show it. Once more, he could only speak plainly, and honestly. "It is yours. It will always be yours."

Robin could not help but show signs of being moved by this declaration, so rare was such a thing from his husband. The last of his temper drained quietly away from his face, leaving him only with sadness. In a very small voice, he looked straight at Brandon with those large, dark eyes, and asked:

"Why must you do this to me?"

Brandon sensed some acquiescence. But he knew that he still had to go incredibly carefully if he wanted Robin to stay safely in the North, while he wrestled with the forces of nature in the capitol. And so, slowly, he extended his hand towards his husband, and implored him. "Come here."

"No." Robin shook his head, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.

"Please." Brandon would not give up. "Come."

At last, Robin forced himself to rise. He made his way slowly over to the king, and stood before him. Waiting.

Taking every movement slowly, as if afraid to spook him, Brandon reached out, and took Robin's hand in his own. It was so warm, so familiar…it could not fail to comfort him, as he knew physical contact always comforted his husband. Then, so gently, Brandon brought Robin's hand to his lips and kissed it, before pressing it to his cheek and holding on.

"I love you, Robin. No matter what you might convince yourself."

Once more, Robin looked a moment away from crying. He made no answer-but he did not snatch his hand back. In fact, his hand relaxed in Brandon's, stroking his cheek. Pressing his lips together, he looked down at him, grief filling his eyes like so many tears.

"I know being separated again will be awful," Brandon murmured, holding tighter. "And perhaps I should have spoken to you about it first. But you must understand that a few weeks apart means a lifetime together afterward."

There was a distinct shift in Robin's expression. At last, Brandon knew that everything was going to be alright. Robin would stay in Winterfell, where it was safe…he would stay healthy, and whole, and he would return to him when the danger passed.

"I need to keep you with me. All my life." he said, looking straight into his eyes. "You are the only thing that ties me to the throne, to the crown, to human life. Without you…I would be lost."

At last, Robin gave the slightest hint of a smile, though it coincided with a tear falling down his cheek. "I love you too." he choked out. "And I know that you mean well. I just wish…" Another tear fell. As he looked at his husband, he did not need to finish the sentence.

"I know." Brandon whispered.

Finally-Robin seemed to break down the final invisible barrier that separated them. "Oh Bran, I am going to miss you so much! I don't know how I will bear it!" With a sob, he collapsed into Brandon's arms, and began to weep into his neck. And, as Brandon placed a hand on Robin's shaking shoulders, he could not help but feel an acute sense of triumph. His Robin would be shielded from danger. Now, he could concentrate on his people, and try to do everything in his power to work against this terrible mystery pestilence that plagued them. It was as if the god of death had taken up residence in Kings Landing, not inclined to leave until it had eaten its fill…and Brandon could rest easy, knowing that his Robin was well out of his reach.

* * *

As Robin pretended to cry into Brandon, forcing tears to fall, making all the correct sounds…his mind was already spinning, knitting together ideas and schemes for how to proceed. One thing was certain; if Brandon thought that he was going to hide him away like a princess in a tower in this frozen land, while their people languished…he had another thing coming.

* * *

_Kings Landing_

* * *

The woman in blue sat quietly on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, a nosegay pressed over her face to prevent the miasma of disease from entering her body. She swept her long red hair over her shoulder, and looked out at the cursed landscape of a city under siege from sickness, where the enemy was invisible, but deadly. This sickness...this black death...could only have one cause. And to know that cause...one only had to look up at the great statues of the Seven that stood in judgement in the building behind her.

This was a city, under a new and strange king, that had turned over to the darkness. That king...King Brandon the Broken. A Greenseer, a stranger from the North, who had no more right to the throne than she did herself. Who had been chosen, not by gods, but by men. And this Brandon was not even a man. No. He was a Raven.

As the swellings of the sick blackened like dark wings spreading over the bodies of the once virtuous and holy, the gods had made their will known.

And if one wanted to shoot a Raven out of the sky...one only needed a steady arrow.


	8. The Queen

**Hello all! Wow, thank you so much for reading, for fave-ing, following, and reviewing, and for sticking with me even when I miserably fail to post. I really appreciate each and every one of you. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I will see you again tomorrow! 3 xxx**

* * *

The day of Brandon's departure dawned grey and cloudy, the sky silver with the Northern cold. The dismal weather, Robin thought, perfectly matched the occasion. He had scarcely slept the night before, lying awake and staring at the stone ceiling. Despite his anger, despite how much he wanted to shun him for leaving, he could not help but cling tightly to his husband, not knowing when he would hold him next. Nights without Brandon were long, and colder than any Northern morning. As he held him tightly, drinking in his familiar smell and covering his sleeping face with kisses, he could only pray that they would be few…fewer than Brandon thought…

All the same, Robin knew that he could not raise an ounce of suspicion, or all would be lost. And so, as he made his way out into the large, square courtyard at Winterfell to see him off, he was more than prepared. There was one good thing about growing up terribly spoiled: he knew exactly how to fabricate tears whenever he needed them.

"Please don't go!" he wailed, throwing his arms around him and refusing to release. "Stay here, with me!" Having subtly planted the idea that Robin did indeed intend upon staying at Winterfell, he could not help but feel proud of himself as he "sobbed" into Brandon's shoulder. "I cannot bear it without you!"

To his delight, he felt an awkward hand patting him between the shoulder blades. Knowing that Brandon loathed such public displays of passion and affection, Robin could not help but enjoy torturing him a little bit for what he had done. Indeed, he knew that the Queen in the North herself was watching the scene unfold from somewhere up in the battlements, and there could be no better audience for Brandon's embarrassment.

"There, there…" the king muttered, his voice even more robotic than usual. If they had been alone, he would have comforted him properly-but he could not do so in such an open setting. Instead, with each passing moment, his awkwardness seemed to grow. "Everything is alright. It is not for long."

"It will feel long!" Robin moaned, playing into the tragedy for all he was worth. "Every day without you will feel like a year! I am going to miss you so much!" He pulled back, and planted the most enormous kiss on Brandon's unresponsive mouth. Then, he pretended to take a very deep breath, gathering himself in a show of bravery. "But I suppose you are only doing what you must…Even if it does mean leaving me alone here."

"You will not be alone." Brandon's face remained unchanging, but there was the smallest glint of unease in his eyes. He appeared to be searching rather desperately for something to say, anything to say, to placate his husband. "You have Ser Podrick. And the queen, who is your sister by law. Far from alone."

From somewhere behind them, Podrick stood beside Ser Brienne of Tarth, watching the drama unfold before them. It was quite the event-and it made Podrick dread the coming weeks more than ever. As he watched the prince giving a little cry of despair and throwing himself at Brandon once again, he turned to her with a look of quiet desperation on his face, and muttered under his breath:

"I don't suppose you would prefer to stay here with-?"

"No."

Brienne cut him off without a second thought. Looking rather amused by Pod's dismay, she strode forward purposefully in the direction of the king. "Come, Your Grace, we must be on our way, if we hope to reach White Harbour before next winter."

"Oh no!" Robin made much lamentation, kissing Brandon again and squeezing out yet more tears. "How terrible this is! Oh, my darling Bran, you must remain safe, and well, until I am returned to you." A final kiss, tasting of saltwater. "I love you!"

"Yes. I…" The slightest pink tinge had appeared on Brandon's cheeks. "You too." he finished gracelessly. And with that, he was leaving. "Goodbye, Robin."

Robin buried his face in his hands as Brienne of Tarth pushed him out of the courtyard, pretending to be overcome with emotion. However, through a crack in his fingers, he watched, and watched until the gates were closed behind the royal party. As soon as Brandon was gone…Robin felt his heart sink to the floor. As much as he had enjoyed his little game, and as much as he knew that he would see him soon…he could not bear to see him leave. Now that Robin was truly alone in Winterfell, he felt entirely lost.

Indeed, standing there in the freezing courtyard, the final tears he shed were from the heart.

* * *

Sansa could not help but pity the young man who sat across the table from her, looking like a fish out of water. With those large, rather vacant eyes, Robin glanced nervously around him, as if expecting the walls to close in on him at any moment. Without Brandon's rather all-consuming presence, he seemed far smaller, far younger than his nineteen years. It was easy for Sansa, in her mind's eye, to shrink him back to that little boy in his mother's lap at the Eyrie. He did resemble her, in a certain way; but thinking of Lysa Arryn meant thinking of Petyr Baelish…something which Sansa had come to energetically avoid.

To distract herself, she looked at Robin once again, fully taking in her new brother-by-law, who would be staying in her home for the foreseeable future. He looked so strange, so frightened and alone, that it was impossible not to find some measure of pity for him. It was most peculiar, indeed. She remembered meeting him for the first time; how brattish and irritating he had been. She had remembered thinking him at least a tonic from the horror of Joffrey in Kings Landing, from whom she had been fleeing…but that was about the best she could say of him.

It wasn't Robin's fault, she supposed, as she watched him toy with a forkful of food rather than eat it. Not really. It was the way he had been raised…and, in any case, Brandon seemed to have found something in the boy to love. The whole situation still struck her as extremely weird, but when it came to her brother these days, all bets were off. One could find no clues in his face, and none in his voice, as to any true motivation behind his apparent affection for Robin. Perhaps, as she had considered at their wedding, it was genuine. But, frankly, Sansa was far too wise not to be sceptical.

"I can have them bring you something else." she offered, breaking the tight silence.

Robin looked up from his near-full plate, and glanced at Sansa's near-empty one, before meeting her eye. It had appeared that he had completely forgotten where he was.

"…Oh no." he said limply, casting his gaze down once again. "I hope you don't think I am being rude. I just haven't much of an appetite today…" He gave a little sniff, setting down his fork and looking sadly on, as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

It was impossible not to recall her earlier sentiments, upon observing Robin as Brandon had left Winterfell earlier that day: the person who sat before her did not know what it was truly to suffer. Pointedly, Sansa took the last few bites of her meal, as if teaching him a lesson in fortitude.

"I really do appreciate your letting me stay here." said Robin suddenly, looking up. "It is very good of you."

Sansa nodded curtly, not wanting to make a scene. "It is far less than your mother did for me. I have not forgotten." She paused. "And your forces were instrumental in the outcome of the battle of the bastards. I have not forgotten that either."

Robin sat up a little straighter at this; it appeared that he had half-forgotten himself. "Oh yes. Well. I suppose you are right."

With a tight smile, Sansa set down her cup. "I am sorry for your…heartache." she said, trying not to sound sarcastic. "But I hope you know that you are very welcome at Winterfell."

Despite himself, Robin managed a little smile in return. He looked at Sansa for a long moment, before speaking once more in a slightly sheepish tone. "It has come to my attention that I may have been awful to you when you stayed at the Eyrie. I want to apologise for my behaviour. It was thoughtless, and unacceptable."

At this, Sansa had to suppress a laugh. "It's alright, Robin, really it is. You were only a child."

"Still," Robin protested in earnest. "I ought to have known better."

"I imagine all the things we ought to have done, had we known better, would fill many books." Sansa reasoned, keeping her tone light to offset the dark memories that were threatening to surface. "But we must begin somewhere."

Robin shot her a grateful look. Still, in his eyes, there was a distinct grave look, and a certain level of guilt that Sansa could not quite place. "I am just so sorry." he murmured. "For…everything. When I heard…when I heard how you had suffered at the hands of the Lannisters…and then of the Boltons…" He paused, shaking his head slightly as if unable to conceive of such horror…which, Sansa supposed, he never would... "I was the lord of the Vale, for the sake of the gods. I should have done something."

Sansa did not often turn her mind to the past. Especially to any part of her life that included the word Bolton. She had long since accepted that she would never come to terms with what Ramsay had done to her, she would never accept it, she would never understand it, and she would certainly never recover fully. She certainly did not believe that such evils had been done to her in order to teach her some kind of lesson, and loathed any who suggested it. But she had learned to exist in spite of it, and that was more than she had ever thought she was capable of. Now, she knew she was capable of anything. And so, she was able to plaster on a mask of strength with which to regard Robin.

"Thank you for saying that." she said, her tone level. "But now, I know we are true allies. Since you married my brother, you are as good as a Stark, after all."

At this, Robin could not help but look pleased. He looked at Sansa for a long moment, as if hardly able to believe that she was real. Still, the guilt remained prevalent in his eyes, but he managed to smile again. "Now I see why Bran admires you so much."

Now, Sansa could not help but scoff. "I am not sure that he does."

"Of course he does!" Robin shook his head, still smiling. "He thinks the world of you. You must know that." He paused, a knowing look crossing his face. "Well…I know he does not always _show _it, but-"

"No." Sansa agreed at once. "He does not show it. Or…much of _anything_, really."

All of a sudden, Sansa and Robin found that they were sharing a wicked grin-and then, a giggle. How strange it was that they had been brought together at that moment by a person such as Brandon Stark…perhaps uniquely in the world, they both loved Brandon dearly, and were perpetually baffled by him. It was over this mutual joke at their brother/husband's expense that Sansa found herself feeling more warmly towards Robin than ever before.

"It is true, though," Robin said, as the laughter finally died. "Bran adores you. And so do I." He paused again, giving a heavy sigh. "That is why I am so sorry…"

Sansa did not think much of this new apology, assuming that it simply followed his guilty admissions of earlier. She merely called forth her squire to refill her wine cup. Then, feeling better than she had felt in a long time, she raised it.

"To you, and Bran. I wish you all the health and happiness in the world."

Looking guiltier than ever, Robin raised his in kind. "I wish you more." he choked out, before his gaze dropped to the ground once more.


	9. The Mother

**Hello everyone! Once again, I am SO SORRY. I have suddenly had no WiFi for the last two days, and so could not post. I really do apologise, and thank you for sticking with me. I PROMISE there will be an update tomorrow! Once more, thank you so much. I hope you enjoy this xxx**

* * *

Blueness was beginning to penetrate the pink morning sky as the woman in blue took up her position outside the great Sept of Baelor. The air still bit her face with early chill, tainted with the salt of the sea, just invisible over the stretching heights of the buildings in Kings Landing. She pulled her blue cape tighter around her shoulders against it, and stood as tall as she could. Standing less than five feet high, her red hair falling loose past her shoulders, she did not evoke sentiments of might, nor of power. However, there was one thing that she could do stronger, and better, than any person living.

The early morning traffic dragged its feet over the cobbled stones; men and women lugged crates towards the market on wagons or on their own backs. The scent of freshly baking bread was one the woman welcomed, and drank in greedily, having had no breakfast. Even the stench of carts of fish and crabs from the night's fishing smelled delicious, and her stomach itched. Still, she raised herself over the wants of her mortal body, turning her attention skyward.

Behind her, in the Sept itself, she knew that seven pairs of stone eyes were looking down, watching as she prepared. The thought of the Seven, the strength of her conviction, sustained her more than any food of this world could. Today, she would sup on the ambrosia of the Seven Heavens.

Carefully, the woman bent down, and retrieved a simple candle from her pocket. Having lit it, she held the little lick of flame skyward, dedicating the candle to the goddess she wished to call upon. The goddess that, if she was successful, the whole kingdom would soon call upon with her.

Hundreds of thousands of voices were needed. But Kaela had only one.

Standing upright before the Sept, blind to the world going by and deaf to all but her mission, she opened her mouth, and began to sing to the Mother.

* * *

If the Northern days were uncomfortable, the nights were simply unbearable. As Robin donned his heaviest fur-lined cloak, and slipped rabbit-skin gloves onto his hands, he felt as if he may as well have been naked in the snow. It was long past midnight, well into the early hours of the morning. Robin could not recall the last time he had been awake so late. This cold, this frigid kingdom…and Winterfell was considered warm by its standards! How did the peasants in the fields not simply freeze in their beds?

But Robin could not think upon anything at that moment but the journey that lay ahead. He steeled himself as he put on his boots, trying not to dwell on how dark the sky was, or how terribly dangerous the world could be at night. His mind wondered back to his mother, who had warned him time and time again that he must never, ever go out at night, or else he may be set upon by criminals, who would rob him, kidnap him, torture him; or else by hilltribes who would not hesitate to break his bones and smash his skull; or shadowcats, who would rip him limb from limb…She had taught him to fear everything in the world…But he could not think like that. He had to be brave.

There was only one other factor weighing on his mind as he made his way over to his chamber door. He had been Sansa's guest at Winterfell for almost a week now, and she had been so kind to him that he could not bear the idea that he was about to escape from her custody in the dead of night. He had grown to adore her so quickly, his new sister, who had opened her home to him when she had no obligation to do so. It seemed disgustingly awful that he was about to break her trust in this way. With a sigh, he looked back at the bed, and glanced at the note he had left on his pillow, explaining to the Queen in the North what he had done. And apologising. Endlessly.

But Robin had to go. He had to return to his people. And to his husband.

Bran would surely be in White Harbour by now. He would have boarded a ship before he even knew that Robin was not cuddled up under his lonely furs in Winterfell. There would be nothing he could do but wait in the Red Keep for Robin to arrive. He did not care what Bran would say. It only mattered that he was there, beside him. And so, filling himself with as much courage as he could muster, he pushed the door open.

"Your Grace?"

At once, Ser Podrick Payne, who had been guarding the door, turned around. He could not quite hide his surprise; to see Robin awake at such an hour was unheard of. And yet, there stood the Prince Consort, fully-dressed and meaning business.

"Good morning, Ser Podrick." said Robin politely, as if this were a perfectly normal interaction. Although more guilt bit at him for the manipulation he was about to unfurl, he swallowed it down, and forced a smile. "I am going home."

Once more, Ser Podrick could not quite keep his professional demeanour, so appalled was he. "Home?" he spluttered.

"To Kings Landing." Robin clarified, slipping past him, and beginning to walk purposefully down the dark corridor.

"But-Your Grace!" Podrick clunked after him in his armour, sounding more horrified by the moment. "You can't! The king has-"

"Bran isn't here." Robin breezed, not slowing down a fraction. "I am going home, and there is nothing you can do to stop me. Goodbye."

"But-I-" Pod searched desperately for something to say, still hurrying behind him. "You can't-and you certainly can't go alone!"

This was the moment that Robin had been waiting for. He paused-then turned around to face his kingsguard. "Come with me, then."

At the prospect of disobeying orders, Pod's eyes almost popped out of his head. "No. I can't. My vows-the king-!"

"What would my husband say if he thought you'd let me run off alone into the night, in a strange kingdom? _Anything _could happen to me!" Robin hardened his gaze. "I am leaving. With, or without you."

Once more, the prince was racked with guilt as he watched Podrick struggle. The poor knight was truly caught between a rock and a hard place, and knew not what to do. But he had been charged, above all, with protecting the Prince Consort, and this, he would do until the end. And so, as one vow conflicted with the other…there was only one decision that Podrick could make.

Triumphant that he had got his way, and yet remorseful, Robin gave a small, determined smile. "Ready the horses."

* * *

For more than a week, Kaela had stood outside the Sept, and sung. Her voice was sweeter than honey, and yet as powerful as a swarm. It flew up into the air, and was carried on breezes throughout the streets of the capitol. Simple songs, hymns praising the Mother, asking her forgiveness, asking her mercy…and each one was more stirring than the next.

For the first few days, no citizen paid her more attention than a passing listen, a thought on how talented she was, and then they went on with their day. But soon, as the week drew on, and the mysterious disease claimed yet more lives, the pious young woman in blue with her candle began to draw little gatherings. Then, several little gatherings, merging together to create a small throng. Then-by the seventh day-a crowd.

"We beg the Mother's Mercy!" Kaela cried out to her enraptured audience, who cheered their approval. "We ask her to deliver our poor city from the evils of this pestilence! How many hundreds of our brothers and our sisters, and our children must die before we have atoned enough for our sins?"

The feeling Kaela experienced as the crowd before her shouted and yelled its agreement was nothing short of wondrous. Feelings like bolts of lightning zapped through her entire being, and every hair on her arms stood on end as she stood before them, singing to the Mother, and preaching from her heart.

"And why? Why must we, the people of Kings Landing, suffer such a dreadful trial?" Her voice echoed up into the rafters of the Sept. "I say-it is that _creature_ upon the throne!"

Raising her arms, she lifted her voice so much that it strained right into the back of her throat. "That creature of the Old Gods! That creature of the North! Of magic that has no place in this world-the magic of false gods!"

"False gods!" the crowd bayed back to her. It comprised of a people weakened by sickness, who had already watched too many of its loved ones die to care. A message of hope was a message of hope-and they were putty in Kaela's hands. "False gods!"

"Brandon the Broken is not the gods' anointed king! He was chosen by _man_-and we are sinful!" she cried out. "Sinful, ignorant, prideful man! That is why the gods saw fit to send their plague down upon us!"

The noise of the crowd became deafening enough to stir the City Watch. Knowing that marching feet would be upon her to disperse her crowd, Kaela began to speak so fast, and so passionately, that she found herself jumping up and down on the cobbles, screaming her truth to everyone and anyone who could hear her.

"A King ought to strive to be as the Father on earth, strong, just, and righteous. But Brandon the Broken is nothing like the Father. No. Brandon the Broken is the _Stranger_. He is the Unknown. The Uninvited. And, as the Stranger, his reign has brought death upon the people of this city!"

It was almost too much. Kaela was hit with a wall of sound, so intense that it almost knocked her off her feet. Before the soldiers of the City Watched arrived to quell the disturbance of the peace, she raised her hands skyward once more, knowing that the gods could hear her, and shrieked out:

"There is nothing of the Light of the Seven in our so-called king! The Faith must rise over the lowly human crown, and win back the favour of the gods! It is not only our duty, but our joy! I say, brothers and sisters-we will rise! Now, sing with me!"


	10. The Capitol

**Hello all! Thank you so much for reading, and for sticking with me. Sorry it's such a short chapter today-there will be more tomorrow. As always, special thanks to those who have fave-d, followed, and reviewed! I really appreciate it. See you tomorrow xxx**

* * *

Pod watched ruefully as the black mare in front of him swayed off the road and into the bushes for the tenth time that day. Its rider gave a squeak of shock, lunging so far forward in the saddle that he was almost unseated. Robin pulled desperately at the reins, squeezing his heels inexpertly into the horse's sides and willing her to straighten out. Of course, she did not, merrily ducking her head down into the long grass and beginning to chew.

Hiding a sigh, Pod urged his own horse forward, and gave Robin's mare a hard smack on her hindquarters. "Yah!" Instantly, the mare surged forward once again, her hooves clopping obediently over the stones.

"Thank you, Ser Podrick." said Robin in a very small voice. Indeed, he sounded absolutely miserable. Robin was not built for travelling in this way. Having never worked a day in his life, his hands were as soft as they had been when he was a baby, and so they blistered under the friction of the reigns. His legs were not strong for riding, and when they dismounted each night to sleep, he could barely walk. He was not an experienced horseman, and although his mare was generally considered very easy, he could not manage to control her. But, to the prince's credit, he had been very brave about it, pursing his lips against the pain and always moving forward.

Three days until White Harbour. Three days.

* * *

"Your Grace." Lord Tyrion got to his feet, and inclined his head in a show of respect to his king.

"Your Grace." Samwell Tarly followed suit, giving a small smile as Brienne of Tarth pushed Brandon towards his place at the head of the Small Council table. The king had scarcely returned to the Red Keep an hour ago, and already he had called a meeting. As of yet, no one had spoken, but there was a distinct atmosphere within the chamber. It was as if everyone in the chamber knew a great and terrible secret that none of them wanted to discuss. The state of the capitol was the very definition of an elephant in the room.

After a short silence, Brandon inclined his head slightly to one side, and opened his mouth. Although his expression was as unchanging as it had ever been, there was an aura of unease about him that was almost palpable. "What is the number of the dead?"

Sam spoke with an air of reluctance. "It is getting harder to keep a count. Hundreds. I would be surprised if there were less than a thousand by now."

Brandon did not look disturbed by this revelation. He merely gave a short, stiff nod. "I am sure you have heard what the common people are saying about me."

The omniscience of the young king was not something one could ever truly get used to. Tyrion looked quietly disturbed for a short moment, before giving his answer. "There have been disturbances, Your Grace. But they are nothing. The rambling of a madwoman might convince a handful of fanatics, but it is not as if there is any substance to-"

"More than a handful." said Brandon flatly. He caught Tyrion in his icy gaze, and gave him a very hard stare. "More than a disturbance."

Tyrion was silent for a few moments. He looked down at the pile of documents on the table in front of him, and gave a sigh. "There has never been a monarch in the history of the world who has been popular with the smallfolk for the entirety of their reign. You have been more than fair to them. Under your rule, taxation has been reduced, clean water brought to the people, the harvests from the Reach have been plentiful, and you have not yet taken us into a war. They have no cause to hate you. I do not believe that your hold on the throne is in any true danger."

"That's true." Sam agreed quickly, nodding in earnest. "And then there is the prince consort. They love Robin. He is wildly popular."

Brandon did not answer. He simply clenched his jaw.

"…On the subject of the prince, Your Grace…" Tyrion began delicately. Having been dreading this moment, he delved into the pile of documents, and produced a raven scroll, bearing the Stark sigil and several lines of remarkably neat handwriting. "From the Queen in the North. I am sorry to tell you this, but according to your sister-"

"I know." Brandon's head snapped around to look at him once more so suddenly that he was reminiscent of a snake. "I know what Robin has done."

With a grimace, Tyrion set down the scroll. He waited for the king's response. But Brandon made none. After a moment of silence, in which a flash of what might once have been pain danced through Brandon's eyes, he turned back to the Grand Maester, and continued as if Tyrion had not spoken at all.

"Redouble efforts to contain the disease. Send men into the streets, and spread the word. The ailing are to be kept in isolation. Infected households must be marked-perhaps a symbol could be painted on the doors. All materials that come into contact with the ill and the dead must be burned. All burials and cremations are now to take place outside the city limits."

"Er-" Sam struggled for a quill and a bottle of ink, scribbling down Brandon's steady stream of instructions. "Yes. At once, Your Grace."

"Good." Satisfied, Brandon turned back to his Hand. "As for these…disturbances. What would you advise me to do?"

Tyrion leaned his elbows upon the table, resting his head on his hands. He thought carefully for a long moment, screwing up his eyes slightly in concentration. "Well. I have seen more than one monarch be brought down by organised religion. My own sister was marched naked through the streets of Kings Landing on the orders of the High Sparrow while she still called herself queen. I doubt that it will come to anything like that…but when people are desperate, it is easy for someone as charismatic as the woman in blue-Kaela, or whatever her name is-to whip them up into frenzy."

Brandon merely stared on. "So what should I do about her, my Lord Hand?"

Tyrion gave a small shrug. "A certain kind of monarch would see this as more than grounds to have her executed. She is a traitor, and she is attempting to incite rebellion. Most would have done so already."

"Perhaps it need not come to that." Brandon said, with astonishing temperance. "This pestilence is our priority, not street preachers. But if she continues to gain support…she will have to be quelled."


	11. Mercy

**Hello all! Thank you so much for reading, and especially to those who have fave-d, followed, and reviewed! I really appreciate each and every one of you. More tomorrow, see you then! **

**CW: ****This chapter is pretty upsetting, and contains, briefly and not in detail, the death of a character. If you feel that this would affect you, please only read until the end of Kaela's second POV section, or skip this one. Sorry for the slight spoiler, but I would rather look after you all than have someone unexpectedly come across something while reading that would have a negative impact on their mental health, for any number of reasons.**

**I understand the irony of saying this in a Thrones fic, but trust me, this is a bad one...**

** Thanks, and much love xxx**

* * *

Kaela was made of lightening. She had transcended mere humanity, and had become instead a vessel of energy; a conduit of higher powers, a mouthpiece of the gods. Every waking moment, her fingertips tingled with fire, her eyes alight were alight with righteous indignation, and every word she sang or spoke could have been written in _The Seven Pointed Star_.

All this was certainly held to be true in the eyes of her followers; the most devoted of which followed her at that moment through the backstreets of Kings Landing. The dozen or so people of all ages and genders had dyed their shirts or cloaks blue, and walked behind her as a guard of honour in silence, bearing lighted candles dedicated to the Mother in their hands.

Finally, the party came to a standstill in front of a wooden door, the entryway to a small and run-down shop. As Kaela looked at the door, she raised her hand to her lips, and kissed her fingertips, before holding them aloft, up to the sky. At her back, her followers followed suit. In accordance with the new laws, the door before them was marked in red paint with a large "X" shape. This "X" symbol now denoted the dwelling places of the sick and the dying. The dwelling places, in other words, of the pestilence.

Fearlessly, under the protection of the gods, Kaela pushed the door open, and entered the infected house.

* * *

Green in the face, Robin dragged himself to the deck for the third time that day. Clutching anything he could for support-wooden masts, boxes, crates-he staggered toward the side, before leaning over the side of the ship, and vomiting directly into the grey waters below.

He hated the road. But he was no more built for travel by sea than the Dothraki.

When it was finally over, Robin was too weak to do anything but crumple onto the splintered planks of the deck, breathing in the clean, salt-water smell and trying to ignore the sickening rocking motion. His legs still felt oddly unsteady beneath him after his week on horseback. He still could not properly hold anything in his blistered hands, having to grip food and drink awkwardly in his fingers, before losing it into the sea. Every bone in his body ached.

Almost there. Almost home.

As long as Robin lived, he vowed he would never travel in such a way again. He did not know how anyone could bear it. Brandon had told him stories of his youth, spent almost entirely travelling around, on the run from one person or another, or trekking beyond the Wall. Even Podrick, who had not spoken much for the entirety of their shared journey, had mentioned travelling from Kings Landing to Castle Black with Brienne of Tarth in search of Sansa Stark. How any of them had managed it, Robin did not know. He was not ashamed of enjoying his comfortable lifestyle, and thought of little but his bed back in Kings Landing, with its feather mattress and soft furs…

Of course, that bed also belonged to his husband. Robin was not entirely certain what Brandon would say upon his return. He had to know that Robin had left Winterfell, either via Sansa or by virtue of his own powers. Would he be angry? Well. Even if he was, Robin wasn't certain that he would be able to tell. He would be disappointed, certainly, that he had been disobeyed, and would certainly have words to say regarding Robin's safety. But, before Brandon, Robin had been infantilised his entire life. He knew what it was to be wrapped in sheep wool, and sometimes wondered whether Brandon sometimes unconsciously indulged in doing so too. He was certainly protective. Very protective. And, as much as Robin relished being so treasured, he could not help but feel frustrated with it sometimes.

After several deep, slow breaths, Robin managed to clamber to his feet. In the distance, he could just about make out the shapes of the familiar skyline of the capitol, stretching up in jerky patterns over the sea, and almost glinting with the promise of home. The very sight of it filled him with hope. No matter the outcome, soon, he would be beside his Brandon once more.

Finally, shakily, he made his way back towards the cabin, preparing to white-knuckle the final few hours before he would return to solid ground once more.

* * *

The child in the bed could not have been more than ten years old. He lay beneath a thin, worn sheet, so emaciated that he could scarcely move a muscle. His skin was pale and waxy; it was almost yellowed in tone. Every few seconds, the child let out a weak, shaky cough-but the thick swellings around his neck prevented him from fully opening his throat.

Kaela had seen corpses in better shape than this boy. But no matter. She was not here to consider the frail condition of man. She was here for one purpose and one purpose only. For that purpose, the child's frantic parents had called upon her, the parents who now waited anxiously outside the door, praying to the gods for deliverance. And it was Kaela who was charged with that deliverance.

Fearless, disregarding any concern over catching the disease herself, Kaela leaned down, and tenderly placed both of her hands on the boys sweaty, fevered forehead. It was burning hot beneath her fingers. Then, slowly, she closed her eyes.

"I call upon the Mother-please, gentlest and most merciful of all, take pity on this child. Heal him through my lowliest of hands, and let him live. This poor child is not to blame for your rightful plague upon this city…"

She pressed harder on the boy's head, lifting her face to the heavens.

"Gentle Mother, who is so merciful…see fit to relieve this good and godly child of his trials, and set them instead upon the catalyst of your despair…Take this dreadful pestilence, and let Brandon Stark bear the horror of it himself…Let him grow sick. Let him grow weak, in place of your true children. Spare your poor, humble people, who suffer under his rule, the rule of a king who knows nothing of your Light…" She paused, allowing the spirit of the Mother to fill her, fill her so full that she physically staggered under the weight of her devotion…before, dancing with the flames of justice, her eyes snapped open. "And let Brandon the Broken die in their place…"

* * *

"Thank the gods!" Robin could not help but cry out as, at long last, he stepped out onto the solid ground of the harbour at Kings Landing. He looked up at the familiar city, looming tall and proud above him, and he was filled with purest joy-and immeasurable relief.

"Keep your voice down, Your Grace." Ser Podrick warned quietly, gesturing for Robin to pull his hooded cloak down further over his face. But Robin almost could not bear to do so. The warm sun of the capitol, even in the evening, was too wonderful upon his skin. He allowed himself to enjoy it for a second more, before obediently casting his face into shadow.

"Good." Ser Podrick approved. He looked every bit as tired as Robin felt, and he did not quite share in his elation that their journey had finally come to a conclusion. In any case, he was glad to have brought the prince consort home safely, no matter the circumstances. Still, he dreaded the wrath of his king…

But Robin was not quite ready to go back to the Keep yet.

"This way, Your Grace." Ser Podrick began to lead him in the direction of the castle, sticking close at all times, a hand upon his sword.

"No," Robin would not come. He shook his head-and began to stride purposefully off in the other direction. "There is something I must do first."

And so, he led a very disgruntled Podrick through the streets of the capitol, his boots making familiar sounds on the cobbled stones. He was so tired that he thought he might keel over at any moment…but he knew that he could not sleep, unless he saw it for himself. And so, he forced himself on.

Robin had not known what to expect when it came to the effect of this…pestilence. Indeed, the streets and the buildings remained entirely unchanged at first glance, the moon still hung in the sky, and the sea still crashed on the rocks. All, initially, seemed well. However, the further he walked into the city, and the more that he saw-the more he realised that the opposite was true.

It did not take long for Podrick to spot a clumsy red "X" painted upon a door. The very sight of it sent a shiver to his very core. Worse still-that first "X" was soon joined by an army of identical symbols, painted on countless households, telling the world that they were the dwelling places of death.

And, by the time that Robin reached Flea Bottom…he saw more doors with "X"s than without them.

Robin felt physically sick once more as he observed the old slum, the place into which he had poured so much energy, the place he had dragged out of the gutter almost single-handedly. And now…it seemed to lie in ruin. The coughs and moans of the sick and dying pervaded the air, and the very air seemed thick with plague. Robin breathed shallowly as he walked from street to gruesome street…before-with a small scream, he stopped in his tracks.

There, lying in the middle of the street, spread clumsily across the cobbles…was a body.

The body belonged to a man-that much Robin could tell-but no more. The corpse was so decayed by exposure to the elements that it was almost unrecognisable as human at all. Not a single feature on the face remained intact…there was only crumbling, decaying flesh…

"Don't go near it, Your Grace." said Podrick at once. He was undisturbed by its presence, having had far too much experience with dead bodies. This one would not come back to life, at least…But still, he blocked Robin's way, preventing him from coming any closer. "You can report it at the Keep, and have a wagon pick it up in the morning. Just stay away from it."

Robin had no desire to come any closer to the body, although he hated to leave it lying uncovered in the road like this. He did not know the man, on account of his desecrated face, but it could so easily have been one of the men who had helped to build the Robin's Nest well. He could have seen him working…he could even have spoken to him…Robin was shaken to the core.

But there was one more place he had to visit.

Before Robin had even approached the familiar burned wooden door, he almost threw up in his mouth. There, painted in red upon the door of the orphanage…was a stark red cross.

"Don't, Your Grace." warned Pod. He knew more than anyone what this orphanage meant to Robin, after everything that had happened. But sheer panic was beginning to wash across his face. "We must return to the Red Keep. _Now_."

Images flashed through Robin's reeling mind, like pictures flipped too fast in a book. The face of the Septa, careworn and determined…the faces of the children, so little, so blameless, who played so happily in the courtyard with new toys, wearing the new clothes that Robin had provided for them, sleeping on new pillows, and eating decent food for the first time in their pitifully tragic young lives…

Before he could stop himself, he marched up to the door, and knocked hard on the wood.

After an agonisingly long wait, the door finally creaked open.

"Septa Myrra!" Robin exclaimed, relieved to see her alive. However-there was something acutely different about the woman who stared gapingly up the prince. Her face seemed more lined, her eyes wider, her hair beginning to turn grey…

"Your Grace!" She was more than surprised to see him, bowing her head automatically in a show of respect. But all too quickly, the shock was replaced with a disturbing sense of foreboding. "You must leave this place. Leave now, before it is too late."

"Please." Robin begged her, taking a step forward. "Tell me. The children?"

Instantly-the Septa's lips became a tight line. Her eyes shone with tears, and she clasped a hand to her mouth. Then, slowly…she shook her head. "_I'm sorry, Your Grace_!" Her tears strangled her so that she was almost impossible to understand. "_They have all_…"

Robin could not breathe.

With a voice that was not his own, he found himself choking out words that seemed almost disconnect from himself. "_All of them? Gone?"_

The Septa gave a single, shaky nod.

Robin felt as if a blow had been dealt to his very soul. His mind filled with the sound of laughter, the pounding of running feet, the buzz of chatter and play filling the courtyard…and a little girl with a tangle of dark hair, looking up at him with the biggest eyes in the world…

Once more, Robin found words forming on his lips. "_Even Alys_?"

A grief that could not be expressed overcame the Septa. Words were utterly beyond her now. She could only shake her head.

Robin did not remember anything else. All he knew was agony, filling him, overflowing into tsunamis behind his eyes…before all was darkness.

* * *

Urgently, but surprisingly tender, Pod scooped the prince into his arms, up and over his shoulder, and began to march towards the Red Keep.


	12. Devastation

**Hello everyone! Thank you so much for reading, and especially to those who have fave-d, followed, and reviewed! I really appreciate all of you. More tomorrow, hope you enjoy! Xxx**

* * *

Although he showed no indication of it, it near killed Brandon to watch his Robin arrive at the Red Keep slung over Ser Podrick's back, half-conscious and sobbing his heart out. With every fibre of his being, Brandon wished that Robin had remained at Winterfell, safe and ignorant of the true horror their city had succumbed to. His base instinct to shield Robin, to keep him safe from all harm, made him feel that he had failed miserably in his duty as a husband, and as a king.

Robin himself was a wreck. Having been delivered directly to his and Brandon's private bedchamber, he sat listlessly on the couch at the foot of their bed, staring straight ahead without seeing. Every now and again, his face would crumple up in the most heart-breaking manner, and another tear would fall down his cheek. The power of speech seemed utterly beyond him. Brandon's more human reasoning advised him to give his husband some time, to allow him to recover from his journey, and from the shock. But, as the minutes ticked by, he could not stand to avoid the inevitable for a moment longer.

"You left Winterfell, even though I told you to stay. You directly disobeyed me."

After a few moments of silence-Robin made a curious noise that sounded halfway between a sigh and the yelp of an injured puppy. "You cannot be serious…" he whispered, his voice strangled by tears. "You cannot be doing this to me now…"

"I left you in the North because it is the safest place for you." Brandon continued monotonously. "I asked Sansa to host you so that you would be kept far away from this city. I did it to protect you."

For the first time, Robin looked straight into his eyes, gaping at him in shock. "_How_ can you do this?" he gasped out, his voice rising a fraction. "How can you bear to lecture me now, when all those children lie dead?" More tears spilled. "The children that we supported-that we watched playing in the sun-that listened so reverently to your stories? How can you not care? How can-?" His hands flew to his mouth as his voice cut off completely. But he did not break his gaze for a moment. Now, he was looking at Brandon as if he had never seen him before in his life. As if he was a complete stranger. No. Worse. As if he was a monster.

"Of course I care." Brandon murmured. His voice remained constant, and his face did not change in the slightest-but he spoke from the heart. "I am devastated. Devastated over the fate of the children, and the fate of so many others throughout our city. But especially for the children. I know how much they meant to you, my love."

Robin could not respond to this. He merely stifled another sob, leaning forward in his seat-but his eyes softened slightly. Brandon could not help the way he was, after all, and Robin knew him well enough to understand that he was genuine. Instead, he simply sank back into his grief.

"However, I care about you too." Brandon continued calmly. "You know that your health is delicate. You have deliberately put yourself in danger of infection from a disease that we do not understand, and have, as of yet, no power to contain. I cannot express to you how devastated I am that you have returned to this place."

But Robin was past caring. He swallowed hard, and spoke in a broken voice. "Why should I be different? Just because I happen to be married to the king, why should my health matter any more than the health of our people? Of little Alys? Why should I be spared"

"Robin." Brandon's tone became sharply edged. "Do not say such things. Do not even think them. This is survivor's guilt-guilt which you need not take on."

"I am right, though!" Robin exclaimed. "You know I am!"

Brandon decided not to attempt to reason with him. As he looked at his husband, whom he loved more than life, he realised, for the thousandth time, something incredibly dangerous. He was a king. And he loved Robin more than his kingdom. More than all of his people combined. And that...that was disgusting. Immoral. Unwise at best, and a disaster at worst. This, Brandon thought, was the true purpose of arranged marriages, which were almost always loveless. It was done to protect the people.

Hurriedly, he moved on. "You are to leave Kings Landing at once. I will not insult Sansa further by asking her to receive you again. You will travel to the Riverlands, and stay with Edmure Tully in Riverrun until this pestilence has passed-"

"_No_!" Robin cried out. "No! I will not! I rode for a week through a frozen wasteland so that I could be with you! I travelled across the sea to return to you! You will not turn me away now!"

As much as Brandon's heart was touched by this declaration, as much as he missed him, as much as being without him ached…he had to harden himself. "It is like I said before. To be parted now means being together in future. Isn't that what you want? It is all that I want."

"That isn't the point!" Robin moaned, wiping his cheeks furiously. "Do you _want_ me to stay with you?"

"Of course I do." Brandon answered at once. "That is why-"

"Then you will not send me away!" Robin was almost begging now. "Please. I cannot stand to be away from you, not now. And I refuse to abandon our people. If you want me to go to Riverrun, you will have to tie me up and throw me over the back of a horse, because I will _not_ leave this city!" With wild eyes, he beseeched him. "There _must _be something that I can do to help. I am Prince Comsort of the Six Kingdoms, and I will serve my people! Besides-" Robin appeared to shrink in his seat, weeping afresh. "I love you, and I will not leave you here to deal with this terrible pestilence on your own!"

Brandon tried to harden his heart. He really tried.

"After all I have been through to get back to you..." Robin sniffed hard, his wet eyes extremely wide. "You cannot be so cold as to send me away. Especially now I see the state of our people. I am going to help them if it is the last thing I do. For those poor children. For Alys."

Brandon was silent for a long moment. His head screamed at him to force Robin to go to Riverrun, to truly tie him up and put him in a carriage, and send him to Edmure under armed guard. But as he looked at Robin, grieving and determined in equal measures...his heart simply could not bear to do it. He had come all this way, and he truly loved their people...far better than Brandon could ever dream of.

"You would disobey me a second time?" he muttered. But he knew that the battle was already lost.

Robin fixed him with a very hard stare, his wet eyelashes stuck together. "I would."

There was no reason to keep up the pretence for a moment longer. Those large, dark eyes, so beautiful, so loving...he felt his insides turn to butter.

"My love. I have missed you so."

At long last- with a stranged cry, Robin fell into Brandon's arms, and sobbed into his chest. Resigned to his fate, Brandon placed a hand between Robin's shoulder blades, and patted him in gentle rhythm. Whatever happened to logic? Well. It had a blindspot when it came to his Robin.

"There must be conditions." he said, as Robin silently howled. "You are not to leave the Red Keep under any circumstances. I shall have this chamber cleaned thoroughly twice a day. No one is to come into contact with you unless they have been proven healthy for a week." He paused. "If you are to help our people, you must be well enough to do so. I am still going to protect you as far as I possibly can." As tenderly as he could muster, he kissed his hair, lingering for as long as he could. "Because I love you. And we will come through this together."

Robin could say nothing for a while, as he cried bitterly. But, after a few minutes, he raised his head, and managed to meet Brandon's eyes. "I keep thinking of them all...their little faces...I can't bear it!"

Brandon sighed. Wrapping his other arm around him, he pulled him as close as he could. He would have given anything into the world to take away all of Robin's pain, and bear it himself. Instead, all he could do was hold him, and be there. "Tonight, we will grieve. Tomorrow...we will go to work."


	13. Memories

**Hello all! Once again, I have failed, and I must apologise for not posting yesterday. I was unexpectedly extremely busy, and I can only say that I'm sorry to have let you down again. I am never normally this bad at regular posting, and will do better in future. **

**Thank you all so much for sticking with me, and especially to those who have fave-d, followed, and reviewed. I am so grateful, and I hope you are still enjoying this. Exciting things to come...xxx**

* * *

The raven flew high over Kings Landing. It stared out at the landscape with pale, ghostly eyes, before spreading its wings and swooping down at breakneck speed. Truly, the thrill of flight, of complete and unadulterated freedom, never wore off.

At last, the bird landed neatly upon a window pane, its skeletal feet making no sound as they made contact with the wood. The building was nameless, hidden in the winding backstreets of the capitol, but that worked perfectly in the favour of the people who inhabited the room beyond the heavy, dusty curtains.

It was not a large room, and yet more than fifty people were crammed inside, mostly kneeling upright on the floor, hunching their shoulders to make room. All age groups were represented, from those who were scarcely more than children to elders with silver hair. Each and every one of them were clad in shades of blue, having home-dyed their clothes to match, with varying degrees of success. Additionally, in each pair of hands, there was clasped a single candle, dedicated to the Mother.

_They have increased. Even since yesterday._

"...I cast it out!"

At the front of the room, her habitual blue cloak swishing around her as she spoke with much animation, was a young woman with long red hair. Kaela was so het up, so passionate, that each word seemed to almost lift her off the floor. A large candle burned at her feet, and into the wax, almost obscured by dripping, there was carved a single word.

_MERCY_.

"I cast out the sickness in your children!" Kaela bellowed, lifting her arms skyward. "I cast out the sickness in your brothers, your sisters, your mothers, your fathers! I cast out all the sickness in this city!"

Hidden in this backstreet, her audience shouted its approval with abandon. Through its milky eyes, the raven observed that each one of their candles was also carved with the word _MERCY_.

"The gods have blessed me!" Kaela threw back her head, and closed her eyes, so filled with her faith that she almost erupted. "They have seen fit to work their miracles through these lowly, human hands! I have healed a dozen children of their sickness! And I will heal hundreds more!"

The noise of the crowd was almost deafening. Outside the window, the wind blew cold, ruffling the raven's feathers.

"Only today I healed a boy named Myca, a good and faithful child of the gods!" Kaela yelled, clasping her hands in the air. "The gods saw fit to spare his life, and his poor, pious parents are reprieved!"

The reaction of the crowd was palpable. Some of them banged the floor with their hands, some stamped their feet, some had even burst into tears. It was quite harrowing to watch.

"And, some day soon…" Kaela seemed to relish the adulation, her face shining as she looked out at her followers with the air of a saint. "I know the gods will see fit to smite the worshipper of the false gods, the purveyor of wicked magic, the unnatural demon that sits in the Red Keep…Brandon the Broken!"

The mention of the king's name had a thunderous effect on the followers. The banging and stamping grew louder, but it came accompanied by hissing, cries of hatred, and spitting.

"Believe me, true children of the gods!" Kaela had thrown her head back yet again, her hair wild on her shoulders. "The Mother in her mercy will relieve our suffering, and bring it down upon the false king!"

The raven had heard enough. It spread its wings and took flight, soaring high into the air once more. As it flew, it considered all that it had observed. A memory stirred…A scene Brandon had witnessed through this bird only that morning. Two parents, inconsolable, weeping into one another's shoulders. A body being wheeled away from them on a wagon, to be buried in a mass grave outside the limits of the capitol. The body of a boy, shrunken with disease and yellowed with death. A boy named Myca.

* * *

"If that is true." said Bronn of the Blackwater, folding his arms and lounging in his seat. He was looking rather tanned, having spent a month in at Highgarden with his wife, but the strains of work had already begun to knit his brows together. "Then she's just some mad bitch, full of shit and nothing more. I'm not sure why we're wasting our time talking about her."

"This mad, shit-filled bitch has garnered quite a following." said Tyrion levelly, looking far more concerned. He looked directly at the king, waiting for his reaction. "I think she has officially become a problem."

Brandon had been staring straight ahead, but he slowly turned his head to look at his Hand. "I agree. But I cannot arrest someone for prayer. No matter how misguided."

"What do you _mean_?" Robin's mouth was hanging open. As Brandon had recounted all he had seen and heard, his eyes had grown steadily larger. Now, he was beyond outraged. "This-this _Kaela_ wants you dead! She has openly wished for your death, and even detailed how she wants it to happen-for the gods to strike you down, or whatever! You are the king, and that is treason!"

As his cast his eyes down to his husband, sitting opposite him on the other end of the Small Council table, Brandon could not help but feel somewhat heartened. No matter how little most interhuman relationships meant to him, every time Robin showed him just how much he was loved, it could not fail to touch whatever part of Bran Stark remained. By being so indignant on his behalf, his wide eyes fearful at the very prospect of his death, Brandon almost felt ordinary again.

"Crying "treason" at the prospect of disagreement is the behaviour of a tyrant." Tyrion was reasoning, looking, as he always did, rather exhausted by the prince consort. "But her crimes stretch further than simple religion. Certainly, you could not arrest someone for following the most popular religion in the kingdoms. However, you can certainly arrest someone for disturbing the peace, and for inciting rebellion. Besides." His voice became rather deeper, more serious. "We do not know what this Kaela is capable of. Right now, she is still fairly obscure. But if the people are convinced that she is performing miracles, then I would not be surprised if the more mainstream Faith began to take herm more seriously. An endorsement from the right Septon could prove fatal. And, if Kaela says that the answer to the pestilence is to get rid of the "false" king…" He paused, a very dark expression passing over his face. "One devoted follower with a knife could be all it takes…"

Brandon did not often contemplate his own death. He was far too occupied with all that was already in the world to worry too much about what came after. As the Three-Eyed Raven, he did not yet know how his lifespan may differ from the average person, but he suspected that the moment of his end would not come for a very long time. However…it occurred to him that, should he die, all the stories in the world, stories that had not yet been told, would die with him, and be lost to the ages…

"…quite simple really." Bronn drawled, still slouching. He took a sip from his wine cup before continuing. "We tell the High Septon to publicly denounce her. And we'll tell him that he can either do that, or we'll send the whores he visits at the weekends to do some preaching to the flock of their own. I'm sure their stories are a lot more interesting than anything in _The Seven-Pointed Star_."

Tyrion was almost amused by this comment. "Who needs a Master of Whispers when we have you?"

"I am very concerned with any matter involving whores." Bronn nodded, returning to his wine.

"Ser Bronn is right." Brandon said, his tone as flat as ever. "An audience with the High Septon is essential. He must understand that she is a charlatan before the Faith can be highjacked."

"That's not good enough!" Robin still looked abashed. He shook his head in disbelief as he goggled at his husband. He had heard what Lord Tyrion had said, and had taken it straight to heart. "You could be assassinated! I want her found and imprisoned before she can-"

"Perhaps we should also conduct an audience with Kaela herself..." Tyrion interrupted carefully, still watching Brandon carefully for a sign of agreement. Thankfully, less than a moment later-Brandon gave a curt nod.

"Yes. Bring her to me."

* * *

"I don't like this…" Robin whispered, as they lay in bed that night. "I don't like this at all…"

Brandon had been almost ready to fall asleep, lying on his back and closing his eyes. Robin was already snuggled into the curve of his neck, warming him gently beneath the furs. It was comfortable and familiar; the most natural feeling in the world. But now, Robin's voice was tinged with terror.

He reached up, and took Brandon's face in his hands, gently turning it to face him. "A woman who wants you dead is to be brought to our home. What if she tries something?"

Brandon did not smile, but as he looked at his Robin, he rather wanted to. "I should like to see a street preacher get past Brienne of Tarth." he murmured in his misty tones.

"That is not the point!" Robin protested, still cradling Brandon's face. "As long as she is at large, you are not safe."

It was quite novel for Brandon to hear Robin so preoccupied with _his_ safety for a change; this coming from the person who had recently ridden with only a single guard throughout a foreign kingdom, and boarded a ship to a city under the shadow of disease…Robin did not seem to recognise the irony, his large, rather slow eyes registering nothing but worry.

"If you were hurt," Robin continued, stroking Brandon's hair. "I do not know _what_ I would do. I am so scared for you…" He pressed himself closer to him, a thousand scenarios playing out in his mind, each more horrifying than the last.

"I am a king." Brandon droned, trying to close the subject. "I cannot be ruled by fear. I must be ruled by the opposite. If we hope to quell Kaela without shedding blood, this is the only way."

Robin did not look convinced; in fact, he looked very much the opposite. Still, he could see that the conversation was over, and there was nothing he could do to change Brandon's mind. "I wish you would let me make her fly…" he muttered darkly-though an element of tease had entered his tone. "If you had a Moon Door here in the Keep, all it would take was a word, and then _whoosh_!" He punctuated his words with a windmill gesture from his arm. "We wouldn't have to be scared of her for a moment longer!"

Once, such a statement might have made him laugh. Now, Brandon simply felt a small tingle on the insides of his cheeks. It was not often now that he saw a shadow of Robin's younger self. "That may be." he droned, reaching out under the furs and wrapping his arms around him. "But I am not afraid of her."

"_I_ am!" Robin declared in earnest. "I am frightened of anyone who could hurt you!" But he snuggled up, seemingly mollified for the night. "I do not know how you can be so brave." he said, kissing his cheek. "I am frightened of so many things…Even at Winterfell, I used to jump every time Lady barked."

At this, Brandon's interest was captured. "You were frightened of Lady?" he asked, picturing Sansa's new dog.

"Well…" Robin gave a guilty little smile. "A little, I suppose. I have never been fond of dogs. Especially great big ones…I hope you don't think I am being silly?"

Once more, Brandon came dangerously close to smiling. "No." He reached up, and touched Robin's hair, feeling the floppy silkiness beneath his fingers. As much as he felt terrible that he had returned to such a dangerous place…to have his Robin back was nothing short of heaven. "It is rather sweet." He thought for a moment, another memory stirring from deep inside his boundless mind. "You would not have liked Summer at all."

"Who is Summer?" Robin asked, rather vacantly.

"My direwolf." To think of Summer was like thinking of a childhood friend, a long-lost companion who had almost faded. Since Brandon's life had changed cataclysmically, he had never truly mourned the death of Summer…to think of him now sent a heavy, sinking feeling directly to his gut, as if he had swallowed a bag of stones…

"Oh…" Robin nodded, looking sleepier by the moment. "I forgot you had a direwolf." A second later, he stifled a yawn. "Just promise that Ser Brienne is going to stand between you and Kaela at all times."

"You have my word." Brandon agreed, closing his eyes once more. He could not find it in him to feel scared of the woman in blue, not yet. Her empty threats, her fruitless appeals to the gods to destroy him could hold no real danger. Not when compared to the peril of the pestilence itself…

After another kiss had landed on his lips, he felt Robin nestle in once more. "Goodnight, darling…" Mere minutes later, his breathing grew deep and even as he fell asleep in Brandon's arms. For all the world, Brandon would not have moved. Together, in their bed, beneath the furs, it was impossible not to bask in a moment of perfect peace…


	14. The Revelation

**Hello all! Thank you so much for sticking with me. I am so grateful to you for reading, and especially to those who have fave-d, followed, and reviewed! I appreciate each and every one of you. More tomorrow, hope you enjoy this! xxx**

* * *

As the woman was technically in open revolt, Robin was not sure as to how exactly their "guest" would react to the presence of the king. Brandon could not be described as a traditional monarch; reverence meant as little to him as most things in the tangible world, but as he sat by his side in the throne room, waiting for Kaela to appear before them, Robin was more than prepared to be insulted on his husband's behalf. Hang that. Robin sat with his fists clenched, feeling like a bird about to do battle with an imposter in its nest, raring to defend his Bran against this ungrateful rebel, this charlatan who preached lies to the people they both loved.

Brandon himself simply looked apathetic, staring pensively straight ahead, but no more could have been expected from him. As the moment of impact grew ever closer, Robin found himself shifting in his seat, feeling as if his stomach was filled with snakes. The idea of coming face to face with Kaela terrified him greatly, for she wanted Brandon dead-but the more he thought about it, the more he was simply angry. Brandon had been more than fair to the common people. They had not suffered under his rule. The fact that they had decided to scapegoat him for something so beyond his control was frankly offensive.

"Remember," said Brandon suddenly, breaking into the prince's thoughts. "Some believe that Kaela can heal the sick. Therefore, she has been exposed to the pestilence more than most. You must make no attempt to approach her." He glanced at Ser Brienne, who was situated in front of them, slightly to the left, in full armour with her hand on the hilt of Oathkeeper. Parallel on the right stood Ser Podrick, similarly poised to defend. "She will not be able to get anywhere near you."

"Why would I want to approach her?" Robin exclaimed, somewhat shocked. "I hate her."

"I have observed her for some time." said Brandon vaguely, in his habitual flat tones. "I am certain that she intends to-"

But he could say no more. For, in the grand entrance arch, there had appeared a dozen armed guards. They entered the throne room with all due ceremony. Escorted between them, walking calmly towards her fate, there was a young woman in blue, with long red hair, and a lit candle clasped in her hands. At the very sight of her-Robin bristled. No one, least of all this false prophet, slandered his husband. _No one_.

If Kaela had been nervous, she betrayed no sign of it, entering the throne room as if it were her own home. Her eyes were upturned, focused on the ceiling, and her lips moved in silent prayer. In fact, she looked almost joyful, too consumed with her faith to care about such trivial matters as earthly kings. In fact, as Robin watched her, in an odd way, he was uncomfortably reminded of Brandon.

This being his cue, Lord Tyrion stepped forward, and took up his place beside the king, on his right hand. On his left, Robin assumed a dignified air, filled with righteous indignation. He glared at the woman in blue, loathing her with all his heart.

"You are in the presence of Brandon of House Stark," Tyrion began, his voice echoing impressively around the throne room. "Your rightful and elected king, lord of the Six Kingdoms, and protector of the realm."

Kaela made no attempt at a bow, or even the slightest inclination of the head. She merely cast her eyes downward to look at him, her expression completely unreadable.

Robin looked at Brandon, waiting for him to ask her to kneel. But he did no such thing. He merely stared straight back at her, his own countenance blank. Affronted, Robin opened his mouth, ready to chastise Kaela for being so disrespectful-but before he could do so, the woman in blue had turned to _him_, and made a beautiful, practised curtsey.

"_My Prince_," she addressed him, making a great show of this declaration, and treating Robin to the warmest of smiles. When she smiled, it was as if her entire face had been hit with a beam of sunlight. One was simply compelled to look at her. "May the gods bless you ever more."

Robin was more than a little surprised. Indeed, it was all he could do to maintain his poise.

"Your devotion to the very poorest of our brothers and sisters is an example to us all." Kaela continued, twinkling up at him. "My followers and I pray nightly for your good health and happiness. You are a true child of the gods."

Not knowing how to react, Robin looked to his husband-who did not seem the slightest bit amazed by these protestations of love. He must have known. Why did Brandon not tell him that this group of fanatics had decided to idolize him? Then again…perhaps he did not want to know…

Still, Robin had come to defend Brandon, and defend him he would. Hardening himself against this flattering display, he set his face once more. "My work in Flea Bottom, and the slums of this city, has always been generously supported by our king." he began accusingly. "You would do well to-"

But Brandon held up a hand to silence him. He regarded their "guest" without warmth-but with no ill-will either. "Thank you for saying that. The Prince Consort's devotion to those who are less fortunate is inspiring. However…" He paused. "That is not what I have brought you here to discuss. I would much sooner hear about what you think gives you the authority to decide who is and who is not a "true child of the gods"?"

Robin sat back in his seat, eager to hear his husband verbally destroy this rebel.

Kaela had closed her eyes, tilting her face skywards once more. "The gods speak to me…" she murmured, her tones becoming rather ethereal. "I am a mere lowly servant, a vessel of their will. I simply obey."

"That as may be." Brandon said. Once more, he gave a slight pause. "Tell me more of these…voices…"

"The gods did not choose Brandon Stark to take the crown." Kaela declared, as bold as brass. "You were not anointed. You were chosen by mortals. You have no right to occupy the throne."

But Brandon merely waited for her to finish, looking more interested than wrathful. "These are not answers. These are your sermons."

"Don't you see how your people are suffering?" Kaela's voice rose so much that her guards moved closer to her, their swords primed. But she showed no fear, meeting Brandon's eye as if she were a saint under persecution, and awaited a divine reward. "The gods have seen fit to curse us with this plague because they are displeased that man has been so arrogant as to elect its own ruler!"

Robin could not believe that Brandon was allowing her to speak to him in this manner. And yet…he allowed it.

"I see." he said, plainly. "But I have reigned for some years now. One may be inclined to wonder why they waited so long to curse us."

"How can you claim to know the motivations of the gods?" Kaela shouted back, her face growing rather red. She glowered at her king, looking as if she wanted to spit at his feet. "So throw me in a cell! Cut off my head with Monkoen's machine if you want to! My followers will carry on-and the gods will be avenged!"

"I do not want to hurt you." Brandon replied calmly. "No one is more concerned than I am over the state of our people. I understand that, in place of a medical cure, you seek a divine one instead." Yet again, he gave one of his curious pauses. "I _understand."_

"How can you understand?" Kaela shot, her eyes wild. "How can you?"

When Brandon spoke again…it was with unusual softness. A softness Robin rarely heard from him.

"I am sorry for the fate of your family, Kaela."

A short silence followed these words.

Robin gaped at his husband in disbelief. Even Lord Tyrion's head had whipped around to look at him-clearly, he had not informed his Hand of this piece of information either. For a brief moment, Robin wondered how on earth he could possibly know of this woman's private life-before he remembered. Of _course_ Brandon knew. The ever omniscient Raven…

Kaela herself looked sickened. Her face had turned deathly pale.

"They were among the first to succumb to this pestilence." Brandon continued, his voice still uncharacteristically delicate. "I know what it is to lose one's parents. And one's siblings."

It was as if the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle had been slotted into place. Suddenly, everything made sense…

But Kaela was experiencing no such epiphany. Unlike Robin and Tyrion, she was unused to Brandon's omniscience. Shocked and disturbed, white-hot fury overcoming her like the grey clouds of a freak thunderstorm. Pointing at the king with a shaking finger, her voice rose to a scream. "_You are unnatural! A creature of darkness and false gods!"_

"The fact that you claim to be hearing voices is extremely concerning." Brandon said mildly, unresponsive to her horror. "Perhaps it is reactionary to your grief. I do not believe a cell is the place for you. I think that you need a maester. And I am happy to provide the greatest in the land."

Robin had never known that Brandon could be so compassionate. Looking at the woman in blue now, of whom he had been so frightened, he too felt his heart open. It was clear, all too clear…

"_You know nothing of the gods_!" Kaela cried out as she was escorted from the throne room. "_You know nothing of their power! You are a marked man, Brandon Stark! They shall be revenged!" _

But Robin was unconcerned by these ramblings now. He felt an enormous sense of relief. With a half-smile of pride, he reached out, and covered Brandon's hand with his own. Thank goodness for him…Robin loved him so much that he felt his heart would burst out of his chest...

* * *

After dinner, Brandon sat alone in his private study, shaking sand over a raven scroll to prevent the ink from running. The hour was growing rather late, and he was anxious to retire to bed.

Outside the window, under the pink evening sky, the lights of Kings Landing glittered in every window. It was as if the heavens had inversed, and the stars shone upward instead of down. As he looked out at the city that had become his home, he thought of the stars as they appeared over Winterfell…and especially the wonder of the celestial sphere over the Land of Always Winter…The stars were so much brighter in the North, where Brandon truly belonged…

Finishing the raven scroll, he sealed it, and set it aside for the morning. Opening his mouth, he made to call for Podrick Payne, who stood guard outside, to take him to his chamber.

However; this is not quite what happened.

For, to his astonishment…all that escaped from his mouth was a low, rasping cough.


	15. The Future

**Hello all! I'm sorry for posting this so late, and how short this chapter is; it is only half the one I had planned to post. The other half will come tomorrow. Thank you so much as always for sticking with me. I was completely bowled over by the kind comments on the previous chapter, so special thanks to each one of you. See you tomorrow!**

* * *

"By all the gods, darling, I am exhausted!" Robin exclaimed, neglecting to knock as he burst into Brandon's study. He swept over to the desk and sat down on the opposite side, leaning up on his elbows and sighing heavily. Planning attempts to contain the pestilence had taken up all of his time and energy for the remainder of the day, both physical and mental, and he was more than ready for bed. Still, he could not help but give his husband a sad little smile. "I shouldn't complain. This is perhaps the most important work we will ever do."

Brandon did not respond at all. He merely stared straight back at him, those harsh brown eyes seemingly more intense than ever.

"Despite everything, I cannot help but feel optimistic." Robin went on, toying absent-mindedly with a discarded quill. "If nothing else-things can't possibly get any worse…" As it so often did, his mind turned to the orphanage in Flea Bottom. Still, he could picture every detail of little Alys' face, recall the exact pitch and frequency of her laughter. He could almost feel her tiny hand gripping tightly onto his own, pulling him through the playground to show him her ragdolls…Tears welled up threateningly behind his eyes, and he had to bite them back.

Still, Brandon's lips did not move.

Quelling his tears was proving extremely difficult. The more he tried not to think about Alys, the more vividly he saw her. "I cannot describe to you how terrible I feel." he whispered, his voice rather thick. "About the children. I can't help but think that there must have been _something_ I could have done to help them. I still cannot believe that they are gone…just _gone_…"

From the other side of the desk, there was nothing but silence. Brandon continued to gaze at him in a most peculiar way, the boring intensity of his eyes seeming to increase with ever moment. But Robin figured that he was just giving him space to talk. At such a time, it was greatly appreciated.

"You know," he continued thoughtfully, sniffing. "I suppose I always thought…I always wondered if we might…" His voice trailed off as nerves got the better of him. It was such a delicate subject to broach. But oh-what did he have to lose by mentioning it now? "Little Alys. She is…was…so special. And, well…I was going to ask you what you thought about perhaps…giving her a home in the Red Keep. With us."

Once again, Brandon did not react in the slightest.

"I thought that it simply wasn't the right time." Robin explained, casting his eyes downward in shame. "In the grand scheme, we have not been married for very long, and we are both still so young…I thought it was the kind of thing we could have talked about in a year's time, or so." Holding back his tears was near impossible. "I mean, obviously we will never have babies of our own…" A thought that quietly grieved his heart. "But we could have given a poor little girl without a family such a wonderful life…and that could have been even more wonderful…" Droplets had begun to spill down his cheeks as he struggled to keep himself together; however, he was mere seconds from falling apart. "And-and if we hadn't waited…if s-she had been living here…s-she would still be alive…"

It was no use. He buried his head in his hands, and sobbed.

As if the sight of his husband crying so bitterly had set off some kind of lightening strike in him, Brandon finally snapped into action. "You cannot do this to yourself." he said monotonously-but Robin knew that he meant every word. "You are not to blame for the death of the child. For the death of any one of the children."

Deep inside, Robin knew this to be the truth-but he couldn't hemp himself. Determinedly scrubbing his eyes, he sat upright once more and swallowed hard. "It's just awful, isn't it? None of them ever knew what it is to have a family…"

Brandon was still staring at him in that strange manner. It was as if he was trying to memorize every detail of his face, to learn him by heart. There was an odd shine to those eyes that Robin rarely observed there; today, it was out in full force. "It's like you said." he murmured, his expression carefully blank. "In this harsh and unjust world, there are many children without families. Perhaps, in the future…you will be able to give another child-or children-a home."

Robin looked at him, the faintest seed of hope slowly being planted inside him. "Do you think we could?" he asked, as another tear fell.

Brandon's face was still entirely unreadable. But he gave a slow, metallic, nod. "If that is what you want…then of course you could."

Once more, as he wiped his cheek, Robin could only be grateful for what he still hand-the most wonderful husband in the world, who continued to surprise him by the day… "I love you, Bran Stark." he whispered, emotion almost choking him.

For a long moment, yet again, there was no response but that hardest, most penetrating of stares…Then, at long last, the king spoke once more. "You are exhausted. You must go to bed at once, and rest for the night. I…" He paused. "I still have work to do."

Thinking nothing of it, Robin got shakily to his feet, feeling a slight headache coming on from all the crying. "You are right. As usual." He managed to give the smallest of teasing smiles. "You will follow me in a while, then."

"Go straight to sleep." said Brandon firmly. "Do not wait for me. Everything will seem better in the morning."

With a small sigh, Robin nodded, too tired to do anything but acquiesce. "Yes. Goodnight, darling." He leaned over the desk, and made to kiss Brandon-but, with the slightest turn of his head, the king ensured that the kiss landed on his cheek rather than his lips. Still wrapped up in sleepiness and grief, Robin saw nothing especially noteworthy in this. Rather, with the littlest smile he could manage, he made to leave the royal study. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight." Brandon's voice sounded just as Robin closed the door behind him. "My love…"

* * *

But Brandon had no plans to follow his husband to the warm bliss of their bedchamber, to fall asleep like children in each other's arms…

Robin's little speech about the children they might have adopted together tugged at his heartstrings so acutely that it hurt. It had never occurred to him, never even once, that he, the Three-Eyed Raven, could have done something so amazingly ordinary as having a family…With his Robin, anything in the world seemed possible.

Regretfully, there was no time to think upon such beautiful fantasies. Even the one about simply retiring to the same bed as the love of his life. No. That…that most simple and natural of experiences, was now highly dangerous. Perhaps fatally so.

Fatality…

Brandon was not afraid of death. He did not identify enough with life to fear the alternative.

However. There was so much more at stake than the simple loss of a life. There was the loss of millions of lives, millions of stories that lived inside his head, playing out before his mind's eye. If Brandon should die…then all of history would vanish, as if the ink had simply been washed away…

Even worse. Kaela's curses haunted him, spinning around and around in his head like a flock of ravens, carrying the darkest of words on their wings…_You are a marked man…they shall be revenged_…

Did this mean…did he dare to imagine…that Kaela may be no charlatan at all? Were divine beings he knew nothing of, who were outside of his Sight, and so as far as he believed, did not exist at all…truly striking him down? Did they mean for him to die, as part of some dreadful divine punishment? Was it all, all of it, true after all?

There was so much he had yet to do. So much more he had to learn, deeper parts of his ancient magic that he was yet to fully realise…

And now, he faced an extremely uncertain future.

He should have planned for this. He should have thought…why did he not think? How could he have been so foolhardy?

Yet…as much as he knew that his little life meant nothing at all…the thought of losing all of history was a drop in the ocean of pain he felt at the prospect of leaving Robin behind…

Brandon squared his shoulders. He summoned all of the courage he had. Then, he called out.

"Ser Podrick?"

In less than a moment, the young knight appeared in the doorway. "Your Grace?"

"Have a squire fetch Lord Tyrion. And the Grand Maester. I need to speak with them."

Podrick looked quite surprised at this request, especially given the lateness of the hour. "Now, Your Grace?"

"Yes. It is a matter of…grave importance."


	16. Ashes

**Hello all! Thank you so much for reading, and especially to those who have fave-d, followed, and reviewed! I appreciate you all so much. Once more, I must apologise for posting so late again-I will try to do better tomorrow. Hope you enjoy this! **

**NB: Anyone who has ever left a review on my work knows that I like to reply to every single one with a thank you. Yesterday and the day before, something went wrong with the site, and it did not let me send any messages. I have now replied to everyone, and am very grateful for your patience xxx**

* * *

"I do not know what to tell Robin."

Tyrion was quite impressed with how calmly he was able to regard his king, after having been given a most catastrophic piece of information only moments before. He looked at Brandon, that youthful face so out of place on top of that remarkable mind, filled with the most ancient of magic…magic, Tyrion had understood straight away, that could soon be lost forever.

"Perhaps it may be easier if I go away." Brandon continued thoughtfully. He too was a picture of composure, as if they were discussing the weather, as opposed to his own mortality. "To go into hiding somewhere. I…" He gave a short pause, his jaw tightening slightly. "I will not allow him in the vicinity of an infected person."

"Your Grace," Tyrion began, believing wholeheartedly that Brandon had his priorities entirely out of whack. He kept thinking about Brandon's brain, housing a perfect history of the world, knowledge that had to exist, or else it would turn to ash… "Nothing has ever been gained from infantilising Robin Arryn. Besides, if you truly want to protect him, he needs to know the danger in the first place."

Brandon did not appear to be listening, at first. He simply gazed straight ahead, a most curious, pensive look about him. But, when Tyrion had finished, he opened his mouth once more. When he spoke, it was in an extremely misty tone. "…He travelled across half of Westeros to be with me. It still astounds me that he did. How can I force him to stay away? If he contracts this pestilence, then…" His voice trailed off. It was clear that he, the person with all of the answers, had none.

"With all due respect, Your Grace," Samwell Tarly spoke for the first time since Brandon had imparted his ill tidings. "I think were are getting a little ahead of ourselves." He gave Brandon the smallest of smiles, stretching his rounded cheeks. "If you are infected, then most of your symptoms have yet to surface. It may not even be the pestilence at all."

"That isn't the point." said Tyrion, not allowing himself to feel optimistic. It was his job to prepare for the worst. And now…he felt drastically ill-equipped. Despite all his years of incomparable political experience, he had never dealt with the matter of succession quite in this way before. "If, Gods forbid, our king does indeed succumb to the disease, then who is to rule after him?"

At this-Sam's smile died at once.

Never before had there been an elected king. There was no heir apparent. No heir at all. Would the next monarch be chosen via a vote again? But who would the candidates be? Brandon was…he was so…There was no other like him on the planet, that was certain.

Lowering the tone of his voice, Tyrion had never been more reluctant to speak a sentence in his life. "I have seen many a game played to reach the throne. Each more disastrous than the next. If the king dies…then there may be war."

A short silence followed this declaration. Every one of the three who were assembled on this quiet night had lived through the horror of war, most of them more than once. To see the Westeros they had worked so hard to hold together potentially fall apart was more than any of them could bear to think about.

Sitting in that royal study, the black sky looming through the window beyond, Tyrion knew that losing Brandon meant losing everything.

* * *

When Brandon awoke the next morning, having finally fallen asleep in one of the many bedchambers in the Red Keep, he did not find himself wrapped in the normal tangle of furs and Robin's arms. Sleeping separately, having known the bliss of the opposite, was not something he could grow used to. This strange bed was cold and uninviting, and ordinarily, he would have been eager to get out of it. However…that was not quite the case.

For, the moment Brandon had forced his eyes open…he had known that something was dreadfully wrong.

The fever had come upon him as he slept; his brow was sticky with sweat, yet he shivered beneath the bedsheets. His head pounded so sickeningly in his skull that he felt as if it would explode. His stomach churned, his eyes itched…and the most gut-wrenching sense of impending doom consumed his every atom.

* * *

When Robin awoke, perhaps an hour after Brandon, he was more than a little surprised to find his bed empty. He had not been woken by Brandon coming to bed, and initially assumed that he must have simply slept through it. But now, as he came around, the last fog of sleep seeping from his mind…he found that he was perfectly alone beneath the furs.

Washing and dressing hurriedly, Robin left the chamber to go in search of answers. Had Brandon worked the entire night long, and was still sitting up at his desk, where Robin had left him the evening before? No. Brandon's study was empty. Feeling more uneasy by the second, Robin could do nothing but continue his quest. Where was Bran?

At long last-Robin spotted a familiar figure, closing the door of a spare bed chamber behind him with a most grave look upon his face. "Grand Maester!" he called, beginning to hurry towards him.

"Oh!" Sam started slightly as he realised who exactly was approaching. A strange expression that may have been something like fear crossed his face-before an extremely fake smile took its place. "G-Good morning, Your Grace." he greeted him, in a most guarded manner, before beginning to fumble with a set of iron keys, locking the chamber door behind him.

"You don't happen to know where the king is, do you?" Robin asked him, trying not to let his anxiety creep into his tone. "It's just that he didn't come to bed last night."

It was doubtful that Sam could have managed to look more awkward if he tried. Having firmly locked the door behind him, he turned to face Robin with an expression of pure embarrassment…and…pity?

"No one has told you, have they?"

Dread-real, honest dread-began to take root inside Robin's heart. "Told me what?" he stammered, feeling that cold, creeping horror spreading throughout his body.

Sam was quiet for a moment or so, still looking at Robin with that terrible sympathy. Carefully, he held his hands aloft, as if trying to calm a spooked horse. "Now. You mustn't…" He took his time choosing his words. "You mustn't panic. I know that you can be quick to passion, but-"

"What do you mean, _quick to passion?" _Robin exclaimed, his raising voice echoing off the stone walls. His heartrate had almost doubled. The roaring in his ears told him that he was about to be sick, or faint. "What has happened to my husband? Tell me!

Gently, Samwell told him.

The moment the words had sunk in…Robin felt as if he had been plunged into freezing water. His vision was obscured, his hearing blocked out, and his skin was clammy and frigid. No…no…this wasn't possible. Not Bran. Not his Bran…From somewhere very far away, Sam was still speaking. Robin caught phrases such as _so_ _sorry…shouldn't have found out like this…don't lose hope_…but none of them mattered. Robin had transcended this realm, and moved into another-a realm of nightmare.

It couldn't be true. It couldn't be true. It couldn't be true. It couldn't-

From the other side of the locked door, there came the distinct sound of coughing.

Coughing that Robin could not mistake. Coughing that made his heart stop still in his chest.


	17. The Smallest Council

**Hello everyone! Wow, thank you so much for reading, and especially to those who have fave-d, followed, and reviewed! I really, really appreciate it. The last chapter was absolutely littered with mistakes, and for that I apologise. I have gone through and corrected it, so it may be worth another read. **

**As always, more tomorrow, and I hope you enjoy! xxx**

* * *

"Rejoice!"

Kaela was so happy that she bounced up and down on the narrow bed, the wooden frame creaking beneath her. Imagining a sea of blue before her, all of her most devoted followers, she threw her arms wide and proclaimed the good news so loudly that her voice echoed from every wall around her.

"Rejoice! At last, the gods have smiled on their true children, my brothers and sisters! We are saved! We are saved!"

For the last two days, Kaela had seen nothing but the inside of this tiny little room, hidden away in a corner of the Red Keep. It was not a prison cell, and she was not under arrest; although, all the same, she was not permitted to leave. Not until the Grand Maester was satisfied with her progress.

In her mind, Kaela pictured herself as a saint, as a pious and persecuted follower of the gods, bearing a true test of her faith. No matter how much Grand Maester Tarly encouraged her to talk about her feelings, her grief for her family, no matter how much he tried to make her conform, she refused, keeping her mouth closed for anything but prayer. This secular maester knew nothing of how mission, how important her work was, how, single-handedly, she was going to save the city and bring it into the Light of the Seven…Tarly remained convinced that she had a sickness of the mind. But of course, she did not. For she had succeeded. And the only person who was sick…was the king.

With a happy little giggle, she leapt from the bed, ran to the little window, and leaned out on the stone windowpane, lifting her eyes skywards and shouting out loud with joy. All over the city, her followers would sing their joys to the heavens. The sick would be healed, and the plague would end. No more pestilence, no more death…soon, the capitol would be cleansed once more, free of Brandon the Broken, champion of the false gods, and all would be clean again.

"Merciful Mother! Thank you, thank you! Soon, we shall all be free!"

Zealous, and dizzy with triumph, she began to sing at the top of her lungs.

* * *

"There is a problem." said Lord Tyrion, as Samwell Tarly closed the Small Council chamber door behind him. The man was sitting in his habitual chair, but the stack of paperwork before him almost obscured him completely from view. Still, Sam did not need to see his face to know that he was troubled beyond measure.

"What is it?" he asked, not daring to take a seat lest immediate action be needed.

Tyrion stifled a yawn. As he looked over the stack of papers, Sam could see that his eyes were ringed with dark purple, and he was in desperate need of a shave. "The burial pits. They're growing unmanageable. They cannot be dug fast enough, and the bodies are beginning to pile up." He grimaced. "The stench, I am told, is something most foul…" Giving Sam a very dark look, he continued, his voice taking on a strange, hypnotic tone. "The bad air from the corpses creates more corpses. More corpses mean more pits. More waiting for pits means more corpses piling up. More corpses means more bad air…" He made a dismissive motion with his hand, indicating that the issue cycled on and on.

"How many do the dead number now?" Sam asked, dreading the answer.

Tyrion simply shook his head. "Thousands, Tarly. Thousands. Soon, I fear, they will outnumber the living. And then…" He did not need to finish the sentence. Both of them conjured memories of the Battle of Winterfell; the air thick with the odour of death…"Well, at least we don't have to worry about them coming back to life. Though that's about the best I can make of it."

Sam thought for a long moment before he spoke, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then, very, very softly, he spoke: "I have sent Gilly and Little Sam to my mother at Horn Hill."

Tyrion pressed his lips together. He too was quiet for a while, his forehead knitting together. "By sending them to the Reach, you have risked spreading the disease. The Red Keep is an infected household now. We ought to have one of those god-awful red crosses painted on our gates…"

"I know." said Sam, still unable to look the Hand in the eye. "But they have no symptoms. I sent them to the Hill in new clothes, taking nothing else with them. They are not dangerous." At last, he looked up. "I _had_ to, Tyrion."

But Tyrion held up his hand. He gave a slow, metallic nod of understanding. "I know. If I had a family, I'd have done the same thing. Doesn't make it any less wrong." He paused. "I suppose I can't chastise you, really. Bronn upped sticks and left last week, and I have heard no reports from Highgarden of sickness…"

An uncomfortable quietness passed over the chamber, which only served to highlight its emptiness. There was no Brandon the Broken at the head of the table. Without him, the chamber felt as huge and echoing as the Dragon Pit. And, beside it…Robin's chair was unoccupied.

"This council grows smaller by the day…" Tyrion observed, if only to break the silence. His tone became rather dry; and yet, tinged with sadness. "My sister would have adored it…"

"You had better get used to it." Sam muttered. "I don't know how much longer this will go on. The pestilence grows worse by the day."

"Yes," Tyrion agreed, rather reluctantly. "It would seem that Kaela is a charlatan after all. His Grace's sickness has not been curative in the slightest."

Sam thought of the young king, his stomach a hollow pit. When he had left him that afternoon, a rag tied around his nose and mouth as he visited, Brandon had been pale and weak. He had long since run out of solid food to vomit, bringing up only painful bile, and coughing fit to burst. As of yet, no terrible black masses had surfaced on his skin…but it was only a matter of time.

Treating Brandon was most peculiar. Although he was dreadfully ill, perhaps even dying-there was never a change in his facial expression as he coughed and heaved. His eyes remained quietly intense, his mind working overtime behind his fringe, and he never complained. He never even groaned.

Sam thought back to the last-and only-time he had seen the king show true emotion. It had involved a sickbed, an uncertainty, and a brush with death…only it had been the prince consort's life that hung in the balance. After Robin had been poisoned by Alyssa Stone, and all had believed him dead…Just thinking of the way Brandon had grieved him almost broke Sam's heart all over again. And yet…now, Brandon was utterly stoic. It was all most disconcerting.

"I don't suppose the prince is to join us?" Tyrion asked, the dryness still very present in his voice. He knew the answer before he had even asked the question.

"He is in…quite a state."

Sam did not want to describe the way that Robin had broken down before him. He did not want to go into details of how he had sobbed into his shoulder, how he had begged to be allowed to see his husband, how he had howled when he was told that it was impossible. He had been so hysterical that Sam had wanted to give him essence of nightshade to calm him down. Of course, and with good reason, Sam supposed, given his history with the substance, he had refused it…

He had left Robin crying uncontrollably into his bed-furs, and double-checked the lock on the door to Brandon's sick-chamber, before making his way to that meeting. There could be no danger of Robin being infected too. That was the only demand that, between coughing and vomiting, Brandon insisted upon again and again, fixing Samwell with the most intense of stares. _Keep him away…don't let him come…keep him safe_…He had to obey. Brandon was still the king. For now.

"I do not blame the boy," said Tyrion quietly. "Soon, he may be regent." A ghost of sardonic horror flashed across his face. "Robin Arryn, regent of the six kingdoms and acting protector of the realm…Until we can have another election, that is…"

The thought of how much negotiation and organisation such a thing would take, the idea of having to orchestrate such a delicate procedure was more than Sam could bear to think about. Instead-he set his jaw. "I'm doing my best to keep that from happening, my lord. I will do everything I can to keep His Grace alive."

Tyrion gave him a long, world-weary look. "That's not enough." he murmured. "You must do more."


	18. The Sickchamber

**Hello all! Thank you so much for reading, and especially to those who have fave-d, followed, and reviewed! I am eternally grateful. Sorry for posting so late again! More tomorrow, hope you enjoy xxx**

* * *

Midnight had long since passed before Robin dared sneak out into the corridor, a single candle held aloft before him to light his way. His bare feet stung on the cold stone floor as he crept along, listening hard for anyone who might intercept him on his short journey. Thank the gods, there were none. As his eyes itched with tiredness, he was grimly reminded of the last time he had stolen out of bed in the dead of night, against the wishes of his husband and king…his time at Winterfell seemed like years ago now. The wondrous ancient castle, the glory of its queen, the magic of his second wedding…it may have all been a dream. Nothing seemed real any more. Nothing…except pestilence.

He knew that the door was locked. But he had to do _something_, or else, he was certain he would lose his mind.

And so, on he pressed through the darkness of the Red Keep at night. For a place so filled with noise and activity during the day, it was eerily quiet. Robin did not like it at all. He loathed being alone. Truly, he loathed it. He could not stand being untouched, unheld, unkissed…Even the most crowded of rooms felt echoingly empty without Bran. Oh Bran…Robin felt as though he could burst into tears all over again. The very thought of the love of his life enduring such a horrible disease was completely unbearable. And the thought that he may…well. Robin wasn't prepared to think about that. No. He simply refused.

Finally, he reached the door. The door that separated him from his husband. Those few inches of timber may as well have been a thousand miles. But Robin was determined. Pressing himself as close as possible to the wood, he raised his voice as much as he dared from a whisper, and called out:

"Bran? Are you awake? Can you hear? It's me…"

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence on the other side of the door. Robin waited, his heart climbing into his throat. Perhaps Brandon was sleeping…that was good, he supposed. At least he was resting…but then, barely audible, barely there at all-

"…You shouldn't be here." came a flat, monotonous croak from the room beyond. "Keep away from this place."

Just to hear his voice made Robin's heart swell-then shatter into a thousand pieces. "How can I stay away when I know you are suffering?" He pressed even closer to the door, as if willing himself to pass through the solid wood itself, and sighed. "Oh darling, I have scarcely stopped weeping all day…" Swallowing hard, he sighed again, the smallest amount of frustration betraying itself in his tone. "_Why_ didn't you tell me yourself that you were ill? I am always the last to know with you!"

Silence. Then, a coughing fit.

Slowly, Robin reined himself back in, giving his heart over entirely to concern, and to love. "Darling…I am sorry. I know this isn't the time. Perhaps you wanted to protect me, and I thank you for that. But I don't need protecting. I need you to share your life with me, Bran."

"_Go_." Brandon repeated, as forcefully as he could muster; although it was still very pitiful. "Stay away. I don't want you near me."

Now, it was Robin's turn to be silent-this time, out of hurt. He felt as though all of his insides had just fallen through the floor.

"You know I didn't mean it like that." murmured Brandon. The funk of sickness in his tone became diluted with something else; something Robin could not place. "I did not intend to be cruel. Perhaps if I was crueller to you, you would stay away from me, where it is safe."

"It is not in your nature to be cruel. And I'm not going anywhere," Robin swore, ignoring these ramblings. "I'm right here. For you." He paused, leaning his forehead against the door and blinking back the tears that welled threatening behind his eyes. "If you will not let me look after you, then let me love you in any way I can. I am your husband, and I will not leave you."

As if to prove his point, he sank down to the floor, and sat down. Nothing, not even wild horses, could have driven him away.

"I still do not like you being so close." Brandon's voice was so weak that it scarcely carried. And yet, somehow, it found Robin, who drank in the sound of it like fine wine. "But I must admit that it is wonderful to have you near me again."

"Then I shall sit out here, and talk to you, until you fall asleep." Robin made himself as comfortable as he could on the stones, his hands pressed against the door as he poured his heart through the wood. "Don't worry about answering; save your strength, my poor sweet Bran. You must come through this. You must get better."

A painful silence. Finally, sounding more distant than ever, Brandon broke it.

"…My love, we must be realistic."

"_Don't_." Robin snapped, squeezing his eyes shut as if he was being physically tortured. "Don't even say that."

"Robin-"

"_No_." Furiously, Robin bit back his tears. Brandon was referring to the unimaginable, and he would not-_could _not-consider it. No. "Stop it. You are going to be _fine_. Now, lie back, stop talking, and relax. I am here, darling, and I am not going anywhere."

"We ought to-"

"_Shh_. What did I just say?" Robin shook his head determinedly. "You must focus all your attention on getting well…" The lump in his throat grew so much that it was painful. "Oh Bran, I would give anything in the world to be able to hold your hand. Just hold your hand…" A hot tear spilled down his cheek, a world of agony contained within it. "But soon, you will be all better, and I'll hold your hand again, and everything will go back to the way it was. I know it will. I just know it…"

Brandon did not answer, just as Robin had bid him. But, after a moment, he could not help but mutter into the darkness:

"_I love you_."

"I love you too." Robin whispered back passionately. "So much. More than I have the intelligence to express." He made his voice as gentle as he possibly could. He remembered the way his mother used to whisper bedtime stories to him, and tried to capture that feeling of absolute comfort. "Think of all the time we have left, my own one. Soon, we will be together again, and nothing will ever part us. We still have so much left to do. So many of our people we can help, so many lives to make better. Just as you made my life better, darling Bran. You made me into a completely new person. I know I can be slow, and stupid, and frankly a nightmare...but I am just _better_ with you. And I think you are better with me, too. All your little quirks…" He could not help but smile, tasting salt tears as he did so. "How strange and mystical you can be…It must be so easy for you to forget that you are as human as I am sometimes…" Filled with more emotion than he could contain, desperately, he kissed his hand, and pressed it against the wood of the door. "But I love you anyway. I will love you from this day…until the end of my days…"

* * *

When Samwell Tarly made his way to the royal apartments the next morning, pushing a stack of heavy books on a cart in front of him and preparing to redouble his efforts to cure the king, he made quite the discovery before he had even entered the sickchamber. For there, in a heap on the cold stone floor, and dead to the world, was Robin. He had fallen asleep against Brandon's door. As Sam looked more closely at the prince consort, a tight feeling of sympathy in his chest, he noticed that his eyelashes were stuck together with the last of his tears.


	19. The Prayer

**Hello all! Once more, I can only apologise profusely for failing to post these last two days. I have been extremely busy, and did not want to produce rushed work in place of halfway-alright work. I am not going to lie, I have felt my standard slipping of late, and so elected not to post when I did not have the time to write something I actually wanted to post. I hope you can all understand, and business as usual will resume tomorrow now that life has calmed down. **

**Thank you all endlessly for bearing with me, and especially to those who had fave-d, followed, and reviewed. See you all tomorrow xxx**

* * *

There he stood. In the last place in the world he ever thought he would stand. There he stood.

Robin stared at the heavy wooden door before him, firmly padlocked and inaccessible, intended to keep not only him out, but that which was inside _in_. However, the room beyond did not hold his beloved, in his sickbed, far out of reach. No. Instead…this particular room, in the bowels of the Red Keep, almost as far away from the royal apartments as it was possible to be…there sat Brandon's very antithesis.

One force, and one force alone, had brought the prince here. It was not love, or glory, or power. Nor was it devotion, piety, or even faith. It was sheer, unadulterated desperation.

Before he could stop himself, Robin knocked hard on the wood.

"Kaela?"

He called the name out into the quietness, his voice echoing off the stone walls around him. In the window behind, unbeknownst to the prince, a black raven had come to roost.

Silence.

Then, at long last…a misty tone emanated through the door like a cobra from a cave.

"My prince…" Kaela sounded extremely hoarse; it was not surprising when one considered that she had scarcely stopped singing since word got out regarding the king's illness. Almost four straight days of hymns and devotionals had reduced her throat to sandpaper. However, although breathless, she was perfectly clear. "The gods told me that you would come…"

Robin gave an involuntary shiver. He was unsure as to exactly how seriously he should take this declaration. And so, he moved swiftly on, trying to keep his tone as certain as he could. "I would speak with you."

"Of course, my prince." Kaela replied. From the crescendo in her volume, Robin could tell that she had moved closer to the door, leaning against it on the other side. The two were less than a few inches apart. "It is an honour to address a true child of the gods."

"Yes," Robin coughed rather awkwardly, recalling their exchange in the throne room. "That is all very well. Though I am not convinced that it is true."

"Even if you do not know it, your good works are the result of the gods using you as an agent to make their world a better place." Kaela spoke, as always, as if she had just read the words from _The Seven Pointed Star_. "You were chosen, my prince, for a higher purpose."

Despite the dire situation, Robin could not help but feel somewhat belittled. "My "good works" are not the labour of the gods." he snapped. "They come from me, and me alone." Then, keen to reach his objective, and to move as far away from this upstart as he could, he pressed on. "But I have not come to you today to talk about that. I have come to talk about my husband, the king. _Your_ king."

From the other side of the door, Kaela made a small hissing noise. Then, in that same reverential tone, the tone of an oracle, she continued. "The gods sent you to Brandon Stark in an attempt to temper him, to guide him back to the light. It is not your fault that his evil is too strong. The false gods-"

"_You_-"

The cry had leapt from Robin's lips without his instruction. To hear his Bran, his own Bran, described as "evil" was more than he could stand. And yet, he knew that he had to bite his tongue, if he hoped to stand a chance of success. Swallowing his wrath, he gritted his teeth, and delivered the piece he had prepared.

"You prayed for the death of my husband. Now, my husband lies sick."

Stating these facts caused Robin physical agony. But thinking only of his Bran, he made himself continue.

"For some reason, it seems to me that the gods have decided to listen to you. I ask you now. I _beg _you." He paused, blinking back his tears. "Pray for him once again. But pray for his preservation. Pray for him to be saved."

Another silence ensued. Robin knew exactly how foolish he was being to have asked such a thing of such a person. He was not even entirely convinced that the gods existed; for goodness sake, Brandon certainly did not believe in the Seven. However…there was nothing else that Robin could do. And if he had not exhausted every possibility open to him, tried everything in his power and beyond to try and save his husband…then he could not live with himself.

"I love you, my prince." Kaela broke the silence, her misty tones cut with steel. "But I cannot do this for you. The gods would consider it an affront to them if I asked them to spare the one they marked, in their eternal wisdom, for death."

Robin's heart had turned to ice.

"My prince, I would suggest to you that you thank the gods for their righteous judgement, and rejoice in their good will." Kaela was saying, zest filling her once more. "You have been purged-as have we all-of a vessel of ancient witchcraft and lies. Soon, you will be free to bask in the Light of the Seven once more." She took a deep breath, and one could hear the smile in her voice. "No more shall the false gods be worshipped! No more shall we suffer with pestilence! And no more must we bow to a false, wicked, sinful-"

"You do not know him!" Robin cried out, silencing her. Hot tears coursed down his cheeks as he took short, quick breaths, resting his hand on the wood of the door to steady himself. "You do not know his heart. Everything I have done for the common people, everything you call the gods' own work, was shared with him." Breathless, choked by tears, he beseeched his enemy. "I beg you. I come to you, not as a prince, but as an ordinary person, who loves his husband! Remember how much you loved your family, before this pestilence claimed them? Well, my love for Brandon is just the same! _Please_, Kaela!"

He waited, panting, half-blinded with salt water. Every fibre of his being seemed ready to shatter.

"It cannot be done, my prince." Kaela answered, unmoved. "I will not pray for Brandon Stark. He is already lost."

Silently, with a flap of its wings, the raven flew away, leaving behind it no trace that it had ever been there at all.

* * *

It was unnatural for a someone who had numbered only nineteen years consider the prospect of widowerhood. And yet, miserably occupying his usual chair at the small council table, there sat Robin. Although he wore his habitual clothes, still a relic of his Arryn heritage, his aura was so shrouded in shadow that he may as well have been dressed in mourning attire already. Far from shadows, there now seemed to be deep purple grooves beneath his tired eyes, which were permanently red from weeping. But now, they were dry, and stared straight ahead in the most disconcerting way. It was as if the young prince was simply beyond tears, and now, all he could do was wait for the news that would shatter his life into pieces.

After that first terrible day, Robin floated around the Red Keep, fulfilling his duties as prince with neither energy nor feeling. Although no one could doubt his concern for the smallfolk, and his dedication to containing the disease as far as he possibly could, he went about his efforts without passion. All the time, one could tell that his mind was high above him, locked in the royal apartments. And, every spare moment, he spent sitting on the floor like a beggar, outside Brandon's sickchamber, whispering fervently into the door.

But now, as Tyrion pressed on with the council meeting, moving hurriedly from one matter to the next, he would almost have preferred no royal representative at all. To have the prince join them was like having a ghost in their midst.

"…so we are in agreement." he said, waiting for verbal consent from the near-catatonic Robin. "Your Grace?"

As if he had only just entered the room, Robin's head gave a slight jerk with the shock of being addressed. Then, slowly, he gave a single, metallic nod.

"Very good, Your Grace." Samwell Tarly said, his tone gently encouraging. But his heart was not in it. He often spoke to Robin in this tone, which would have appeared patronising to anyone but the prince in question. But now, there was something odd in the way he regarded him. His eyes kept darting over to Robin, giving him strange little looks over the table. Tyrion had neither the time, nor the inclination, to pursue this peculiarity. Instead, he merely added his signature and the royal seal to the bottom of the document. Clearing his throat, he read back the new laws to the assembled council, laws intended to stop the spread of infection, and to regulate burial practices even further. If the gods-any gods-were good, they would serve to minimise the loss of life as far as possible; though the number of the dead continued to rise with unprecedented velocity.

"One in fifty…" Tyrion murmured as he set down the parchment. "One in fifty residents of Kings Landing now lie dead. One in fifty men, women, and children are decomposing in the earth beyond the city limits…" He had visited the site of the new mass graves, gaping pits in the ground, with shrouded body after shrouded body being tossed unceremoniously in like so many fish in a barrel…it was not a sight he believed he would ever fully come to terms with…nor a sight he wished to see again for as long as he lived. "It doesn't sound like much, does it?" he wondered aloud. "One in fifty…fifty seems like so many, when it is just an abstract number. Fifty grains of rice…fifty ears of corn…fifty cows in a field…But when you think of fifty human beings standing before you, as alive as you are, and then picture one falling dead…one with family, friends, a job, a place in the community…suddenly, one realises the true effect on our city…" He paused, looking straight at Sam. "Soon, we will notice the decrease in population. Industries will suffer…stores will run low; where shall we get our fish from if there are no men to steer the boats, nor men to cast the line?" His stare turned extremely dark. "Nothing incites rebellion like seeing one's own children beginning to starve before one's eyes."

Tyrion wasn't certain whether he was truly addressing the Grand Maester, or whether this was a simple manifestation of his own thoughts. Either way, Sam looked more overwhelmed by the second. Still, his long years of experience afforded him some composure. "I shall write to Bronn at once. We must call upon the Reach to meet the needs of the ailing capitol."

"Sending good grain into a city of the dead…" Tyrion muttered. "Bronn has never been one to make a bad investment."

"We cannot afford to be pessimistic now." Sam answered at once, a new sort of ferocity seeming to grip him. "I will tell Bronn to prepare. He-"

But Sam's voice was cut off by a tiny sigh, like a yawning kitten, from the other side of the table. Robin had begun to slump alarmingly forward, his eyelids extremely heavy.

"Your Grace?" Tyrion offered him instantly. "Did you want to say something?"

"What?" Robin murmured, blinking in surprise. He did not appear to have realised that he had made a noise at all. "Oh…I'm sorry, Lord Hand. I…I…" Stammering, he stifled a yawn. "Sorry." he repeated miserably. "I just can't seem to…" Swallowing hard, he had to force his eyes open. "I'm sorry. I have completely forgotten what I was thinking about!"

If Tyrion had been a younger man, he might have pitied the prince, reduced to this state. Now, he had lost far too many people not to have had to harden his heart; and yet, a part of it still went out to Robin.

"Perhaps you ought to go to bed, Your Grace." said Sam, that kind, yet guarded, tone, slipping back into his voice. "You are no use here. Get your head down for a bit, hey?"

Robin was past caring. He did not need telling twice. In a single, clumsy movement, he staggered to his feet, and began to walk towards the door of the small council chamber. In less than half a moment, he had let the door bang shut behind him.

Tyrion took a deep, slow breath. It seemed to use all of his energy to turn to look at the Grand Maester. "I know you don't want to." he murmured, after a long moment of thick silence. "I don't want to either. But we need to talk about the succession."

At the word; Sam looked more uncomfortable than ever. As Tyrion looked into the face of the man he knew so well…he could see that something was wrong. The same something which had haunted him every time he looked at Robin Arryn. There was something he was not sharing. Something…something had changed.

"What is it?" Tyrion asked, already dreading the answer. "What has happened?"

Sam did not answer. Instead, he glanced at the doorway, as if to check that the prince was truly gone. This action alone lodged a shard of ice deep in Tyrion's gut.

"Tarly?" the Hand prompted him, feeling his heart growing cold. "Has something changed in the king's condition?"

Once more, Sam did not answer. His own eyes appeared to be ringed with blackness.

Oh Gods. Oh, for the sake of the gods. Every god there ever was, or ever would be. A solution-the only logical solution-came to Tyrion fully formed.

"…Tarly." he questioned him, his voice very low. "Are you trying to tell me that Brandon Stark is dead?"

Silence.

Tyrion felt as if his entire life since Daenerys' conquest was flashing before his eyes. Everything that they had managed to change, in such a short space of time, everything they had done and seen, every way they had endeavoured to make this terrible, unjust, and senseless world a better place…and now, it seemed that all of that, too, would soon be-

"No."

Sam was shaking his head vehemently.

Tyrion looked up, hardly daring to believe it.

"No. It is not that The king survives."

Never had Tyrion experienced relief quite like that which he felt at that moment. It was as if the tightest chains in the world had just been released, setting him free at last.

Still. There was doubt.

"Then what is it?" he probed, gathering himself. "There is no time like the present to discuss the succession. It is a matter we must address, now that our king suffers with the pestilence-"

"The thing is, my Lord Hand…" Sam interrupted him, that strange, uncertain look returning to him with a vengeance. However…deep underneath it all…there was a certain glint in his eye. "I am not sure that he does."


	20. Long May He Reign

**Hello everyone! Sorry a thousand times for letting you down again. But I do hope you enjoy this chapter anyway. As always, thank you so much for sticking with me, and especially to those who have fave-d, followed, and reviewed! I appreciate every one of you so much. See you tomorrow! xxx**

* * *

Tyrion was a world-weary man, hardened by experience. Ever pragmatic, having learned to prepare for the worst, he had half expected that the next time he would see the king would be lying in state in the Sept of Baelor, with painted stones over his eyes. Come to think of it, he wasn't certain that Northmen even put stones over the eyes of their dead. He thought of Jon Arryn, whose suspicious death felt as if it had occurred hundreds of years ago, lying in the Sept, taking all his secrets to the grave. Brandon the Broken, of course, had thousands of secrets. Soon, he had assumed, his only son would kneel beside that very alter, weeping for his husband. Not for the Three-Eyed Raven, and his impossible and perfect history. He alone, save perhaps his sister, would weep for Bran Stark. The man.

However. This was not the case.

When Tyrion next laid eyes upon his king, there was no Sept, no stones, no grieving Robin. Instead, when he gingerly pushed open the door of the sickchamber, he found Brandon in the centre of the large, fur-strewn bed, propped up on a multitude of pillows. Although his skin was pale and waxy, and he looked noticeably thinner, his eyes were wide open. And with those dark, staring eyes, he looked straight back at his Hand with perfect alertness.

"Good afternoon, Lord Tyrion." he said, in his habitual monotone. However, there was a certain brightness to his voice that Tyrion had never heard before. Indeed, he had never believed he would at all.

"Good afternoon, Your Grace." he greeted him, shutting the door behind him. "My. You are in good spirits…?" There was a question in his intonation.

"Indeed." Brandon nodded heartily. Although his pale cheeks looked gaunt, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes, one could almost see the energy ticking away behind them. It was as if his brainwaves were so powerful that they were visible, making his whole head crackle with power. "I have rarely felt better."

Tyrion felt as though he could have fallen over in shock. Although Brandon's face was a mask, the ghost of a smile danced in his eyes. It was akin to seeing a dog walking on its hind legs.

"You're not quite there yet, Your Grace." Samwell Tarly looked most cheerful as he stacked his books neatly onto his trolley. He glanced at Tyrion, and shot him a secret smile. "But yes. I do believe that you are firmly out of the woods."

Hardly daring to believe his eyes, or his ears, Tyrion looked to the Grand Maester for answers.

"His Grace is free of black masses." said Sam, unable to hide his grin for a moment longer. "His chest sounds a world healthier. And he is beginning to feel himself again."

"Yes," Brandon agreed. He still wore an expression of upmost seriousness, but the lightness in his tone more than conveyed his mood. "I am almost well. I have even flown."

As much as Tyrion was bowled over by this most excellent of discoveries, and as much as he wanted to celebrate the apparent recovery of the king, a far bigger question loomed in his mind. And it was a question for Samwell Tarly. "…Does this mean that you have managed to cure the pestilence?"

Sam appeared to have been expecting this query. Looking a fraction less joyful, he shook his head. "I don't think it was the pestilence in the first place. Just the influenza. The symptoms are very similar, after all." He gritted his teeth as he looked at Tyrion, anticipating the work they still had ahead of them. "The discovery of a cure is yet to come."

"Indeed." Tyrion nodded solemnly. "There is still much to be done." Still, this was an occasion for great jubilation. No more would he endure sleepless nights, trying to reconcile the succession, for Brandon the Broken would be with them for a while longer yet… "But history is saved." He wished he had a wine cup to raise to the young king, as a smile finally stretched across his cheeks. "You, Your Grace, may be the luckiest man in the city."

A most mysterious look came over Brandon, as he cast his eyes out of the open window and over his city. "Perhaps…"

"Someone ought to tell the prince." said Sam, as he prepared to leave the room, pushing his cart of books in front of him. He looked as though he could skip, and Tyrion more than shared in his elation. "Put him out of his misery at last."

"Not yet." said Brandon at once, holding up a hand. "Let him sleep awhile. He needs to rest."

"The moment he awakens, then," said Tyrion, resuming his usual tone. "As you would have it, Your Grace." He paused, gazing at the extraordinary person in front of him for a moment, and thanking any and all gods that there may or may not be that Brandon would survive. Not only was he saved, but so were the kingdoms. The matter of succession could wait for another day….With a smile, he gave a deep bow. "_Long_ may you reign."

With that, he made his way over to the desk in the corner of the room, and prepared to get back to work.

* * *

Robin was the antithesis of the athletic type. He was soft rather than strong, and neither speed nor agility came naturally to him. However, that afternoon, he sprinted through the Red Keep like a thoroughbred horse. For he had just heard the greatest news he had ever received in his life, and he knew that he had to move fast, before someone could tell him that he had been misled. He had to ride this high all the way to the sickchamber. And, when he finally arrived, panting, at the door-he tried the heavy brass handle and, to his delight, found it unlocked.

"Bran! Oh, Bran!"

He rushed into the room, skidded straight into the side of the bed, and wrapped his arms so hard around Brandon's neck that he audibly choked. From the desk in the corner of the room, having acquired a jug of wine from a squire, Lord Tyrion grinned into his cup. Foreseeing that there would be no more discussion of state matters that day, for the king was quite indisposed, he began to organise the pile of documents before him in order to resume their work tomorrow.

"Robin!" Brandon had managed to whisper, so taken by surprise that he forgot to return the embrace. Instead, awkwardly upright, he tried to make himself heard. "I am still sick. You must keep your distance, or-"

But Robin was so overcome with emotion, tears prickling behind his eyes, that he found himself giggling. "My darling, only you could almost tear a kingdom apart over a bout of man-flu!"

"Man-flu?" Brandon blinked, both astonished and confused. "What is man-fnph!"

But his voice was cut off as Robin kissed him squarely on the mouth. From the desk, Tyrion had to stifle a chuckle at the expense of the king, who, having been without his consort for more than a week, was looking altogether dazed by this sudden outpouring of attention.

"Somehow, the gods have answered my prayers! I don't care how, but they have, and you are returned to me, my love!" Robin gushed, kissing every part of his face that he could reach-before he pulled back, cradling Brandon's face in his hands and swallowing a sob. But then, his tone changed, meaning business. "No excuses now! I am going to care for you myself." At once, he began to straighten Brandon's pillows, tucking the blankets firmly around him, and all the while stroking his hair, as if grateful for the chance to still do so. "I am going to make you better, and nothing will ever part us again!" Giggling once more out of sheer happiness, he kissed the top of his head, and continued, devotedly, to make a tremendous fuss of him.

Tyrion generally found Brandon's expression near impossible to read. It was part of his mystery. But now, as he shot Tyrion a glance over Robin's shoulder, his countenance read one word, and one word alone: HELP.

"I'll leave you to it." Collecting the documents under his chin, Tyrion allowed himself to relish the king's discomfort a little, giving him a rather nasty smile in return. He got to his feet, and made his way towards the door, more than ready for a quiet evening. "_Enjoy_."


	21. Soup

**Hello! Guess who failed to post again...that's right, it's me. So sorry. I was so ready to diligently post again, as I enjoy doing, but then I got super ill. I'm so sorry to let you all down again, but PROMISE there will be an update tomorrow, and then I will do my absolute best to go back to posting daily until this is finished. Exciting stuff to come...thank you so much for sticking with me! Hope you enjoy xxx**

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"Eat." said Robin firmly, holding the spoon to Brandon's lips. In his lap, he held a steaming bowl of thick soup. The experience of the last few minutes had taught the king that his husband would not give up until he opened his mouth and accepted the newest spoonful. Brandon derived little pleasure from eating; it was simply a necessity, so that he could continue to live. Often, he found himself occupied throughout the day, only to retire to bed at night and realise that he had eaten nothing all day. Amongst the hinterland of his mind, the need sometimes simply did not capture his attention. This was a habit that Robin could not stand, upsetting himself when he thought that Brandon was not taking meals at regular intervals, and reminding him whenever he could. Thank goodness that Robin looked out for his human side.

Therefore, awkward and somewhat humiliated, he allowed Robin to gently insert the spoon into his mouth and feed him. During the course of his illness, Brandon had loathed the isolation of the sickchamber, the emptiness of the bed, quietly longing for his husband. But now, smothered with love and care, he felt that he would give anything for some peace and quiet.

"Good." Robin praised him as he swallowed, as one would a child. It was more than a little patronising, and Brandon would never have endured such treatment from anyone else in the world. But he looked so happy, so pleased to be able to look after him at last, that Brandon couldn't bear to dismiss him. How was it that even with such dampened emotions, Robin alone was still able to reach his heart, and play him like a violin?

"You poor thing…" Robin himself was sighing, planting a kiss on his forehead. Just the soft weight of him, sitting on the bed beside him, was more than comforting. He had missed this. The light dip in the mattress beside him that reminded him he was not alone.

"I was so sickly as a child…" Robin continued, stroking his hair. "It is strange to be the one sitting up, rather than the one in bed. It's fun, though." He gave a small, sad smile. "Remember when I was recovering from the Nightshade?"

"I won't soon forget." Brandon croaked out, his throat still raw. That dark and terrible period, in which he had sat vigil for a week beside the unconscious Robin, waiting for him to either awaken or die, was one he tried not to turn his mind to. It was a relatively easy task, given everything else that occupied his head, but he did not like to be reminded.

"And you were so good to me," Robin said, kissing his head again. "I couldn't believe that Brandon the Broken could be so caring."

"I wasn't good to you," Brandon murmured, his tone habitually flat, filled with his own particular brand of frank honesty. "I only did what any husband would have done."

At this, Robin's smile stretched into something altogether warmer, and more indulgent. It was as if he had just been paid a great compliment. "But you aren't anyone. You're my lovely, weird old Bran. And now, I'm going to take care of _you_." He set down the soup bowl on the bedside cabinet for a moment, and began to straighten his pillows for what felt like the hundredth time. Brandon could only sit tight, and endure. Well. It was hardly a trial to endure such things…perhaps, deep down, he may even have been enjoying it.

"It is strange…" he mumbled pensively, turning his mind to the past once again. "The last time I was bedridden like this was after my accident."

Brandon could speak of his fall with cool indifference now; it almost felt as if it had happened to someone else, and that he had simply watched it happen through their eyes, as he had done so many stories. Sometimes, it was hard to tell the difference. Bran Stark had fallen, not the Three Eyed Raven. But Robin's face contorted with horror, as if he were the one remembering such a trauma. "Oh goodness. I hate to think of you being so little, and suffering so horribly." He paused, and a very different kind of grief filled those large, dark eyes. "Little children shouldn't suffer…"

Although Brandon found emotions in others rather difficult to read at the best of times, he recognised to what exactly Robin was referring straight away. The fate of the orphans was ever on his mind. "It was in another life." he said, as gently as he could, trying to move the conversation on. Fortunately, Robin gulped hard, before hurriedly picking up the soup bowl once more.

"Eat."

"I am definitely capable of holding a spoon."

"I don't care," Robin held the spoon determinedly to his lips. "Eat. I want you to finish this whole bowl. You need building up again, you poor thing. I can't stand you looking so gaunt…"

There was little dignity that even a king could muster in such a situation. But obediently, if a little tired of this performance, he opened his mouth, and accepted the soup. The moment he did so, Robin smiled. "There." He reached down to fill the spoon once again, looking rather nostalgic. "Mother used to do this for me whenever I was ill…"

"And often when you weren't."

At this, both embarrassed and slightly disturbed by Brandon's omniscience, Robin's cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink."…I don't want to talk about it. Ah, you mucky pup." he added quickly, as the latest spoonful partially missed Brandon's mouth. He reached for a handkerchief and carefully dabbed at the stain on the corner of his lips. As he did so, Brandon felt the last of his regal dignity drain away. Why was it that he could never bring himself to refuse his Robin a thing? Although, he privately admitted, it was rather wonderful to have someone in his life who still saw him as a human, rather than a vessel.

"None of this is necessary." he stressed nonetheless, as Robin discarded the handkerchief.

"Shut up, you love it," Robin breezed, pacifying him with another spoonful. "Everyone likes to be looked after when they are not well. And besides." He grinned, kissing his hair. "You are not exactly in a position to stop me. Oh, look at you," Giggling, he patted his cheek. "By all the gods, I have missed that grumpy face…"

Brandon took a deep breath in, and then out. He looked at his husband in disbelief, both irritated and besotted, and wondered how it was that his life had taken such a turn. He had been on such a certain path for so many years, to the true North, to become the Three Eyed Raven…Sometimes, he felt that he ought still to be on it. The North called to him, his powers seeking learning, growth, to reach their full potential…But now, by a strange twist, he had become both a king in the south, and the plaything of the person he loved. Only Robin could ever have convinced him that the south was where he was supposed to be. For now, at least.

"I am not grumpy." he droned, after he had swallowed the soup. "I am happy."

Once again, Robin could only laugh, burying his fingers in his hair. "Tell your face, darling." But he seemed satisfied as he set down the now half-empty bowl, and shuffled closer to him on the bed, wrapping his arms around him. "You'll be yourself again soon. And we will overcome this pestilence on our city. Then, everything will go back to the way that it was, you'll see." He kissed him hard, lingering for as long as he could, before burying his face in Brandon's shoulder. "My lovely, grumpy Bran. We couldn't be in better hands…"


	22. A Visit

**A very sheepish hello...guess who missed yesterday's post again. I'm really sorry, but I literally couldn't lift up my head to write. However, I am feeling much better today, and am very much looking forward to tomorrow's post! I have already started writing it, and so there is no excuse! **

**Once again, a heartfelt thank you to each of you for reading, and for sticking with me. I appreciate you all so much. See you tomorrow xxx**

* * *

Kaela did not know how long she had been staring out of her tiny window. She had moved from her narrow bed onto her little wooden chair, then onto the floor, then back again. But, all the while, she stared straight out at the sky above, watching the clouds change against the bright blue of the sky. How was it that the sky could be such a cheerful shade, when beneath it, there was nothing but suffering and death.

She had never left Kings Landing. And so, it seemed to her, that the entire world was crippled with sickness.

Having served the gods devotedly every day of her life, having turned dozens of people back to the faith in such trying times, having even let herself become a virtual prisoner for the sake of her convictions, Kaela could not understand it. How was it just that the true children of the gods, who prayed from the heart for the Mother's mercy, could shrivel and die, and yet the godless king grew stronger by the day? It seemed sick, even cruel, that the gods could play such a hand. If Kaela had been a different sort of person, perhaps such a conclusion could have shaken her faith to the core. Of course, she would never turn her back on the gods, but, as she sat in this tiny room, measuring time only by her meals, and by darkness, she was being tested to the limit.

"_I do not know if I am strong enough_…"

Her whisper echoed quietly all around her. Were the gods even listening? Even at the devastating loss of her family, she had not believed for a moment that the gods had turned from her. But now…

Footsteps.

A key in the door.

"Good morning, Kaela." came the cheerful tones of Grand Maester Tarly. His round face looked particularly chipper today. Kaela only regarded him out of the corner of her eye, wondering, as she so often did, whether his apparently unadulterated care and kindness came from a place of falsehood. It was so difficult to accept that good people could exist in such a world. "How are you today?"

Kaela did not bother to verbalise. She simply shrugged her shoulders.

"That bad, hey?" Tarly's voice was particularly gentle as he set down his armful of books and sat down on the chair opposite her. "I'm sorry to her that. Do you want to talk to me about it?"

_Talk_. That was all Tarly ever wanted to do. To talk about her feelings, to discuss her family, to try to discover the root of her religious convictions; as if they could ever come from anywhere but the gods themselves. It was all so…futile. And so, she shook her head.

Still, Tarly was not deterred. How was it that he could be so cheerfully persistent? "There is good news in the Red Keep today." he said, talking to her as if they were friends. "His Grace has left his sickchamber. All is well again."

Kaela felt this particular piece of "good news" like a dagger in the side. As if the news of the king's returning health could bring her pleasure…it only reminded her of her evident abandonment.

"You can imagine how happy the prince is," Tarly persevered. "He is walking on air…"

At the mention of Prince Robin, Kaela could not help but jerk her head slightly. The movement was entirely involuntary; however, reports of his good spirits only served to evoke memories of the last time they had spoken. She remembered the prince, pleading through the wood of her door for her to pray for Brandon the Broken-as if she would ever insult the gods by doing such a thing. He had wept so pathetically that her heart was very nearly moved to pity. He was so beautiful, and, unlike most, his heart was in the right place. She could almost have believed that he did love him, if one such being as Brandon Stark _could_ ever love…poor Prince Robin had been taken in by a false prophet, a true child of the gods such as him led astray…how the common people loved him…

Tarly could not have failed to see that Robin's name had caused some kind of reaction. Looking interested, he pressed on. "You like him, don't you? Prince Robin? I expect you know all about his work in Flea Bottom, and all over the city. He saved lives…before this pestilence, of course-"

"I know of his labours." Kaela snapped quietly. "It is the work of the gods."

So rare was it that Kaela ever spoke that Tarly could not quite hide his surprise. "For what it's worth, Kaela, I'm not certain I believe in the gods, but I have to agree with you there. His Grace's charitable works are an example to us all. Each one of us should strive, as he did, to leave the world better than we found it."

Kaela had little patience for Tarly's wisdoms-but something he had said struck a chord. "That's exactly what I was trying to do." she mumbled, hugging her knees to her chest. "Heal the world."

"I know." Tarly nodded, his voice very soft. "I know that is what you believe." He paused. "It is the same reason why we elected the king in the first place. He was the best chance we had."

At this, Kaela bristled once again. She loathed when Tarly tried to encourage her to view the king in a positive light…How could Tarly believe that Brandon was the right thing for the kingdoms when the population of Kings Landing grew smaller by the day? No matter what mortal men may have thought of him, the gods knew best…

The very worst thing about Kaela's imprisonment was the amount of time she was wasting. Every hour she spent in this medical cell was an hour she was not spreading the truth to her followers, to the people…it was so wrong that it hurt. The gods wanted her to preach, to teach, to sing…and yet, here she remained, trapped in a cell with Samwell Tarly.

Suddenly, as she looked into those allegedly well-meaning eyes…as if delivered by a messenger of the gods themselves, the answer came upon her.

She had to get out.

And more than that…she had to continue spreading her truth, the truth of the gods, even if it killed her.

The answer came to her all at once.

"I heard that the king had recovered." she began slowly. Then, looking straight at the Grand Maester-she spoke again. "I knew that he would. I prayed for him."

Tarly could not have looked more shocked if she had just grown wings, and flown through the window, and up into that unnaturally blue sky. He kept his face carefully professional, but his eyes betrayed him.

"I prayed for him." Kaela repeated, raising her voice slightly. "I begged the Mother's mercy for our king."

Although Tarly retained his bedside manner, despite his astonishment, he could not help but let a question ejaculate from his lips. "Well…" He blew a great deal of air from between his teeth. "This is a…development!" Then, leaning forward in earnest, he continued. "What made you change your mind?"

Now, as the plan arrived, fully formed, inside her mind, Kaela knew that she had never been abandoned-not even for a moment. For the gods had blessed her with the perfect solution, delivered directly to her like the most divine of gifts. How good were the gods! How blessed she was! How could she have ever doubted them for a moment?

"His Grace the Prince Robin."

"…Oh?" Tarly looked more fascinated by the moment. "Is that right?"

"My prince is a true child of the gods." she parroted, making her eyes very wide, her tone misty. "He beseeched me so sweetly that I saw the content of his heart, and knew that it was good. Such a good and pure heart could never be anything but the work of the gods…" She paused for effect. "Once the gods see fit to lift this pestilence, I shall spend the rest of my life praying for his good health and happiness."

Lying was a mortal sin. But Kaela knew that the gods would understand; it was all for a higher purpose. For _their_ purpose.

"Grand Maester?" she asked, making her tone as sweet as possible. She knew that a heart as soft as Tarly's could never refuse her, in the face of her apparent reformation. And so, with large, damp eyes, she clasped her hands beneath her chin and pleaded harder than she had ever pleaded in her life. "Will you tell Prince Robin that I prayed for His Grace after all?"

Believing that he had made a great breakthrough with his patient, Grand Maester Tarly bustled out of the room, and locked the door behind him. Kaela could hear him whistling all along the corridor, fading slowly into silence.

Mortals were so easy to manipulate. And Kaela had tasted the divine.

Hurrying over to the window, bubbling with adrenaline and feeling as though she could cry for sheer joy, Kaela fell to her knees and began, once again, to sing to the Mother.


	23. And The New

**Hello all! I am sorry for posting at such an unsociable hour, and for this chapter being so short-it is only half the one I planned to post. Honestly, I cannot thank you all enough for sticking with me, even when I do not meet my targets. I am still loving writing this story, and I really hope you are still enjoying it, regardless of my shortcomings. Very exciting things to come...see you tomorrow. Much love xxx**

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"She is lying"

"Darling." Robin stood by the window, his back to the king. Gazing out over Kings Landing now was like looking at a warzone. There was nothing but death and devastation beneath him. Clenching the stone pane, he twisted his head around, and spoke rather breathlessly. "The fact that you are here right now is a miracle."

"No it is not." said Brandon monotonously from his chair. But Robin could not believe him. Just thinking about those dark and terrible days wherein he had thought he would lose the love of his life sent an icy spear straight to his heart. Such a wondrous reprieve could feel like nothing but the work of something higher… "I was sick, and I became well again. Nothing more."

"You could have contracted the pestilence and died. But you didn't…" He paused-then turned to face his husband, his hands clutched beneath his chin. "You recovered. After Kaela prayed for you."

"Robin." Brandon raised his voice a fraction, his tone extremely firm. "I am telling you. She is lying."

"But what if she isn't?" Robin exclaimed, clenching his hands tighter. Images flashed through his mind….the devastation of Flea Bottom…the mass graves on the outskirts of the city…Alys' little upturned face… "If they are out there, the gods listen to her, I know they do. She has healed people in the city-something not even Grand Maester Tarly has yet succeeded in doing. You must admit that-"

"No she hasn't." Brandon wasted no time in responding. He regarded Robin with those most intense of dark eyes, boring into him like knives.

"How can even _you_ know that?" Robin insisted, staring right back. "What proof is there? I still think it would be foolish not to attempt to use her. We both want the same thing-this pestilence gone. I would be amiss in my duties as prince consort if I did not try everything in my power." He hurried over to Brandon, kneeling to the floor and placing his hands on the arms of his chair. "Darling, I know you do not keep the new gods. Goodness knows, I scarcely do either. But if there is even the slightest possibility that the Mother could be real, then surely her mercy is too! The answer to the pestilence may not be in a maester's textbook after all, but in prayer!"

For a long moment, Brandon merely looked down at his husband, his expression impossible to read; though, undoubtedly, it portrayed harshness. Still, in stark contrast-with uncharacteristic gentleness, Brandon reached out, and laid a hand against Robin's cheek. "My love. Listen, and listen well. I have seen almost everything there is to see of the world. I saw it at the moment of creation, the moon being hung in the sky, the first morning." He cradled Robin's face, those proudest of eyes growing softer only for him. "I could have lived at any point in history, and yet I am on this earth at the same time as you-you, the one person in all the eons of time who could have turned my heart to love. And yet…" He stopped rather abruptly, letting those most tender of words settle, before continuing. "I have never witnessed a single shred of evidence that there is anything more divine than the wonders of nature itself."

Whenever Brandon described all he could see in such beautiful terms, Robin's heart soared. Such enormous considerations seemed to shake him to the very core. But now, his face was set. "Even you cannot claim to know that for certain."

Brandon's ensuing silence lasted almost half a minute. When he finally spoke, his tones were more mystical than ever. "You are right. This question will never have a definitive answer. But that is no reason to believe Kaela may be anything more than a trickster." He pressed his fingers more tightly into Robin's skin, regarding him with an almost ferocious affection. "My love. I would never assume to tell you what to believe, save in my love. But I beg you not to be foolish. To be taken in by such an errant fraud is nothing short of _stupid_."

At this-Robin recoiled. Rage tinging his cheeks with colour, he ducked out of Brandon's touch, and clambered to his feet. "You told me once that you did not think me stupid. Now, I do not even believe in that." With that, he turned on his heel and marched towards the door. But, before he could open it, he turned back, and matched Brandon's gaze. "I would have hoped that you respected me enough to know my own mind. There is nothing I will not do to save our people. I am damned if I let any more little children like Alys die. And if there is even the possibility that I can do something about it, then nothing in the world can stop me. Not even you."

Brandon did not look outwardly surprised by this outburst. However, if one knew him well, one could see the very remnants of sadness in his eyes. "Forgive me. I did not mean to insult you. I would never-"

"Well, you did." Robin shot back at him; although, already, his heart had begun to thaw. Deep down, he knew that Brandon had not meant it-but still, he regarded him as coldly as he could. Now was not the time for forgiveness. Now was the time for action. "And I am going to try to save our people, with, or without, your blessing."

At last-he slammed the door behind him.


	24. Believe

**Hello! Thank you so much for bearing with me after I missed another upload yesterday. I apologise for how short the last few chapters have been too! I haven't had a lot of time, but I will try to make tomorrow's longer. Once more, a huge thank you, and stay tuned for the excitement to come! xxx**

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Kaela was a great believer in miracles. She could hardly have claimed to be a follower of the gods if that were not the case. However, when a shy knock on her door was followed by the entrance of the Prince Consort himself, she almost lost her breath.

Prince Robin was so beautiful; every time she laid eyes on him, he took her by surprise. There was something in the construction of his face, his eyes, the shape of his mouth, that seemed almost otherworldly. His every inch was effortlessly regal, and none could have mistaken him for anything other than a prince, but there was something almost childlike about those large, dark eyes that made him altogether more human, and far lovelier than Kaela had ever thought anyone could possibly look. As she looked at him, automatically bowing her head as a mark of respect, she knew that such a face could only be the most divine work of the gods.

"Kaela." he greeted her, sounding rather nervous. He neither smiled, nor frowned at her; but there was a certain shine in his eyes that looked almost fearful. "I do hope I haven't startled you. Might we talk?"

To her the prince address her in such a way was most jarring. From his glare in the throne room, to his tears outside her door, this strange politeness was more than a shock.

"My Prince." she said, beginning to feel quietly anxious. "To what to I owe such an honour?"

Prince Robin shut the door behind him, taking a careful step towards her. He visibly swallowed, before he spoke. "I wanted to thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for your prayers." Extending his hands, his tone became almost reverential. "His Grace the King has recovered from his sickness. I am forever grateful to you for bringing my husband back to me."

To be regarded in such a way, with those dark, trusting eyes, was almost more than Kaela could bear. Her lie hit her straight in the gut.

"I do not have the intelligence to express all I want to," the prince continued, the smallest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "I am grateful, so eternally grateful-and a little confused! I did believe that you hated him. Thought him unnatural. Whatever. But I thank everything that you saw the truth, and changed your mind. It is not a coincidence that it occurred at the moment of His Grace's recovery." He clasped his hands to his chest, and beamed straight at her. "I do believe, with all my heart, that you were instrumental in saving him."

As she looked at the prince, so sweet, so unsuspecting, Kaela almost wanted to blurt out the truth. It seemed almost cruel that she had led him on in such a way…and yet, she simply smiled back in her practised, serene way. "Do not thank me, Your Grace. Save your thanks for the gods themselves. I am a mere lowly vessel of their power."

"But that's not enough!" Robin was beginning to look more comfortable by the moment. "I want to do more to show you my gratitude!" As he crossed the room towards her, Kaela felt more than a little overwhelmed. The prince was the best loved person in the city-perhaps in all the kingdoms. He was so famous, and so adored, that he did not quite seem real. But his humanity was ever restored by those childlike eyes. "You and I ought to have been allies from the beginning. We both want the same thing: an end to this pestilence, and the wellbeing of our people restored. Therefore, it is only natural that we should work together!"

Kaela was all but floored by these words. She could not believe her own ears. It was as if the Seven Heavens had just opened before her, and she could hear the music of the gods…of course. Of course, the gods would never have allowed her to lie without a plan for the greater good…and now, that plan was standing before her.

"…if you can heal the king with prayer, then surely you can heal others!" Robin was gabbling, looking more excited by the moment. "Maybe even the whole city! And so…" Suddenly, he took both of Kaela's hands in his own, holding them tight. "You are wasted here in this cell. I want to give you a position in the Sept of Baelor, where you can pray for the city in the very sight of the gods!"

This was it. This was the miracle the gods had promised her, when she had taken this leap of faith. This was her destiny.

There, in the bowels of the Red Keep, her hands clutched in those of the prince consort, she felt that she could weep for joy. Everything she had ever prayed for was about to be realised…and yet, she knew that she must stay composed. She must keep her head, or else everything would be ruined. And so, she retained her serene smile, as if she was well-used to the company of princes, and to life-changing offers. "That would be the greatest honour." she breathed.

"Oh, wonderful!" Robin exclaimed, squeezing her hands. "I am so glad you think so!"

But she could not seem to keen, or else the game would be up… "If I may be so bold as to ask, Your Grace…What does His Grace the King think of this idea? We do not exactly see eye to eye…"

"Oh, never mind him." breezed Robin, raising an eyebrow. He took on a rather confidential tone, although it was very playful. "He never says no to me. I don't believe that he can."

Kaela forced herself to grin back. "That is…nice." she managed to say, through gritted teeth. But the very thought of Brandon the Broken, especially now that he was set to survive, turned her stomach…never had she believed it would be possible to loathe someone as she loathed him. And yet, here, before her, stood someone who loved him. And who was loved in return.

In an unusual, way, Robin seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "He does not…" He paused, gathering his words. "The king does not always see things from the more…human…perspective. But I hope you understand that he means well." With a small, indulgent smile, he squeezed Kaela's hands once more. "He has all the sensitivity of a bull, and he drives me up the wall sometimes. Well. A _lot_ of the time. But he is a good king, and he would never hurt a fly. I only hope that you will grow to understand him, and to see him for who he is. The way _I_ see him."

It was most peculiar for Kaela to hear the man she abhorred spoken of in such a fond and loving way. And yet, she knew that she could not upset the prince consort at this crucial moment by speaking her mind. So, she persisted, pinning her smile firmly in place. "I look forward to it. You have truly honoured me this day, my prince. I shall keep you in my prayers evermore."

At this-Robin smiled again. But now, it was tinged with sadness. More than tinged. Those eyes had grown rather misty, as if he was close to tears. "This pestilence…took someone from me. A little girl. A special little girl, who had a wonderful future…" Gently, he set Kaela's hands down, and began to make his way towards the door. "Keep my people in your prayers. Not I."

And with that, he was gone.


	25. Defy

**Hello all! Whew, just squeaked in with a post today. I hope you enjoy this. Thank you so much for sticking with me, and especially to those who have faved, followed, and reviewed. You guys are just the best. See you tomorrow xxx**

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"I cast out your sickness!"

Kaela's voice echoed high into the rafters of the Sept. She knelt, in the very centre of the seven-pointed star on the floor, her blue cloak fanned out around her. In her arms, she cradled a young girl of about fourteen years, who coughed intermittently. Her skin was pale, her face gaunt with early sickness. It would not be long until masses, as black as the bags beneath her eyes, would begin to swell upon her throat…

"I cast it out!" Kaela shouted, laying her palms on the girl's sweaty forehead. "I beg the Mother's mercy for this true child of the gods! I ask that she be healed in your mighty name!"

After the blessing was over, the parents of the girl carted their daughter away, thanking Kaela in tears of gratitude. Less than ten seconds later-another ailing person had been brought forth into the centre of the star, and Kaela began her ritual once again.

All around her, candles burned. The foot of the statue of the Mother was absolutely inundated with them. One could smell their sweet, burning scent in the very air. The air that wafted up to where Robin was standing, watching, from the gallery above.

Even being this close to the general public was pushing the boundaries. Were it up to Robin, he would have been down on the ground, on the bright marble floor, helping in any way he could. But he had to content himself with watching, witnessing new hope unfold in the faces of the smallfolk, hope that _he_ had won for them. He…and Kaela.

She was an extraordinary woman. Robin could not fathom her charisma, her conviction, the beauty of her singing voice. Perhaps, in a strange, uncomfortable way, she reminded him of Alyssa Stone…but he pushed that thought firmly out of his mind as he watched. How glorious it was to be able to sow a seed, however tiny, of optimism, in the hearts of the desperate. Perhaps Kaela really could help them. She had helped Brandon, after all. And even if she could not…no one could say that he had not tried everything he could for his people.

Robin was a prince of the people. It was his proudest title, and one he would carry for the rest of his life. If he could not do this for them, then who could?

* * *

"You know," said Tyrion, setting down his wine cup in an extremely tired manner. "You could always just stop them." He regarded Brandon with harsh eyes. "Forbid it. You are the _king_, after all."

Brandon did not answer straight away. He had cast his mind back to the first time he had met Tyrion; the first time he had met him in this new incarnation, that is. They had met at Winterfell, of course, when he had been a child. It had been Tyrion who had given him the design for that wondrous saddle, the saddle which had allowed a miserable, bedridden boy to ride a horse again, something he had never believed possible. Casting his head slightly to one side, he tried to recall that feeling of absolute freedom, of sudden possibility…and yet, he found he could not. For it was buried deeply among the lives of thousands. The life of little Bran Stark hardly mattered at all…

"I know that Kaela did not pray for my recovery." he murmured, at last. "I watched her. In fact, she prayed for the opposite."

Tyrion did not look surprised at this revelation; it seemed that he had been expecting it. "I thought her miraculous change of heart was all rather convenient. It seems that the gods do not listen to her any more than they listen to the rest of us…" Still, he looked more than a little troubled. "But if that is the case, she could easily be described as a traitor to the crown once again. Praying for the death of the monarch. You could stick her neck in Monkoen's machine for less…"

"I know." Brandon said, his tone sharpening. "But someone once told me that such things constituted the behaviour of a tyrant."

At having his own words repeated back to him in such a way, Tyrion visibly prickled. "Well. I have been known to be wrong about things occasionally. _Very_ occasionally." He paused, becoming serious once again. "Are you saying that you would like her executed?"

Brandon remained in silent contemplation for a moment. Then- "I am not certain." He looked straight at Tyrion once more. "And in such matters, one must be beyond reasonable doubt."

Reluctantly, Tyrion gave the smallest of smiles. "That is why we chose you as our king. You are not a tyrant, Your Grace. The furthest thing from one…" He took a quick sip from his wine cup, before sitting up a little straighter. "And what's more-how on earth did she manage to convince the Prince Consort to give her a place in the Sept? I was under the impression that Robin hated her."

"Quite." Brandon agreed. "Not long ago, he expressed a desire to throw her through the Moon Door."

Tyrion gave a mirthless laugh, rolling his eyes. "Oh…those were the days…"

"But you are right." In his gut, Brandon could feel a terrible stirring sensation. "There is not much in this world that I do not understand. But I do not understand why Robin has decided to believe in her words over mine."

The words hung in the air for a long moment after they were spoken. As they cleared, Tyrion looked acutely uncomfortable. "Nor I, Your Grace." he said, his tone rather gentler. "But I wouldn't take this personally. Kaela has managed to amass quite a cult following amongst the smallfolk. With all due respect, I don't imagine it would be too difficult for her to take Robin in too. I mean no offence to the prince, of course." he added quickly. "It is no reflection upon his intellect."

"Oh no." Brandon shook his head objectively. "I am under no illusions regarding the intelligence of my consort. He has many virtues-countless, in fact-but cleverness has never been one of them."

Tyrion looked rather taken-aback at this declaration. "Well." he muttered, giving a delicate cough. "If you say so, Your Grace..." He did not have to voice his absolute agreement.

"But that does not explain his behaviour." Brandon had already moved on. "Why does he take her word against mine? I am his husband."

He had not meant to emphasise the final word, and yet somehow, he had managed it. Even in his customary monotone, a certain level of hurt seemed to have been conveyed. Plainly, Tyrion had picked up on this, and was regarding Brandon with very strange eyes.

"…It would be perfectly understandable, Your Grace…" he began, very carefully. "…if you were upset by the prince's actions?"

The way he was looking at him. It was almost as if he was _hoping_ for some kind of emotional reaction from Brandon. Of course, Brandon gave no such thing-but, the more he thought about it, the more he rather wanted to.

"I wonder if I am upset…" he murmured. "I do believe that this is the first occasion, save his leaving Winterfell, when he has directly defied me. I would never ask for his thoughtless compliance-in fact, I value his contributions more than I can say. He sees things-human things-that I do not. However." He paused. "I am rather insulted that he believes the lies of a charlatan over me."

"Perfectly understandable, Your Grace." Tyrion repeated, going back to his wine cup. He peered over the rim of it, looking rather sadly at the king. "It is a difficult thing, when the ones we love side against us…" Just from his eyes, Brandon knew that he had cast his mind back to the day of his trial for King Joffrey's murder…Brandon remembered Tyrion's facial expression well, the moment that Shae had taken the stand. As well as he remembered his own life…

"But nonetheless." Tyrion was staying, yawning and stretching slightly. "What are we to do about Kaela? "

Brandon could only think of Robin. His dearest Robin, his key to the real world, without whom, he would be cut adrift altogether…

"Perhaps we can have her taken care of. _Quietly_."

Very slowly, Tyrion gave a nod of acquiescence. "Of course. As quickly and quietly as possible. I mean, we are living under the shadow of pestilence. More people die every single day…And of course…" He drained the last of his wine. "The prince mustn't know."

"Yes. Robin mustn't know."


	26. The Dream

**Hello everyone! Just managed to squeak in again today-I do apologise for unsociable posting yet again, but this one is a little bit longer, so I do hope you enjoy it. Stay tuned...I am so tempted to give a hint! I am very excited to carry on writing this, and I am so grateful to everyone who is reading-especially to those who have fave-d, followed, and reviewed. You guys are just the best. See you tomorrow! xxx**

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_Alys. _

There she was. So little, so fragile, her dark bushy hair falling around her peaky little face. She was standing in the very clothes Robin had last seen her in; the brown regulation dress issued to the inhabitants of the orphanage, only far cleaner and less extensively repaired than the one he had first met her in. There was nothing outwardly to suggest that there was anything wrong-but the very sight of her sent a strange stabbing sensation to Robin's very heart…

Wait. Of course. Alys was dead.

Then how could she be standing there, in front of him, just beyond arms' reach? If he took a few steps forward, he could touch her. How was this possible? Perhaps, gloriously, there had been some terrible mistake, and Alys survived after all? Could such a wondrous thing really be true?

Robin opened his mouth to call to her, to ensure that she was truly real. "Alys?" he whispered, finding that his voice echoed strangely around him, as if they were standing in the throne room. He stared and stared at her, his heart racing so violently he thought it might burst. Suddenly, he was gripped with a desire to throw his arms around this poor little girl, to squeeze her tightly, and to tell her that everything was going to be alright. In such a manner, he made to hurry forward, to bend down, to-

But then-everything changed.

The moment his fingers brushed against her shoulders-Alys vanished. In a flurry of vapours, she was gone as quickly as she had appeared.

As she disappeared-pure grief enveloped every fibre of Robin's being. Yet again, he had been unable to hold onto her, unable to save her. Unable to save any of them…

Then-the voices came. Disembodied voices, of whose tones he could not place, echoing around him like circling vultures…_You did nothing….Your fault…Your fault_…

It was cold. An icy wind was blowing. It was as cold as the North.

Involuntarily, Robin's mouth fell open once again, and he gave a cry from the depths of his soul.

_Your fault…You did nothing…Robin? Robin? _

The voices had changed. Suddenly, as if he were being dragged up from the bottom of the well, Robin could hear a real voice, calling to him from the depths of the vision, yanking him back into the world. _Robin? Robin?_

Robin's eyes snapped open.

Still reeling from the horror of his own unconscious mind, he found himself in a far tighter tangle of furs than he ordinarily did-and the arms cradling him had followed suit. Indeed, they were frantically shaking him awake with all the strength they could muster.

"Robin?" Brandon's voice maintained its habitual monotone, but as he turned over to look at him, Robin could see the ghost of concern shining in his harsh, dark eyes. But their familiar glare solidified Robin in the real world, the world in which the early morning light shone through the window, dappling the room in its soft yellow beams. The sensations, the taste, the smell of his own bedchamber intoxicated him so much that he could feel the horror already beginning to slip away.

"Oh Bran, I had the most terrible nightmare!" he exclaimed, snuggling into him and burying his face in his chest. "Goodness, I haven't been so frightened by a dream since I was a child!"

Brandon still looked concerned-as concerned as he could possibly muster. "You were shivering, and making these dreadful yelping noises. I had to wake you."

Although his expression did not compliment his words, Robin appreciated them. "I am glad you did. It was awful…"

"Tell me your dream."

"Will you be able to tell me what it means?" Robin blinked the last of the cobwebs away, his interest sparked. "Is that one of your powers?"

"What?" Brandon frowned, looking most incredulous. He neither confirmed, nor denied this, but moved on. "I just meant…" He sighed. "You are always telling me to share things, and talk about things." His tone suggested that such things were a waste of time, but his determination to try was most endearing. "I was simply encouraging you to do the same."

Despite his upset, Robin's heart glowed. "Oh darling, you are so funny! Alright, I'll tell you. Well." he began, frowning slightly. "There was…there was a…" Suddenly-as the tide washes the beach clean, Robin could not seem to recall the content of the dream at all. "Do you know? I have completely forgotten the whole wretched thing! Oh, isn't it annoying when that happens!"

"Perhaps that is a good thing." Brandon said, sounding reassured. "I shouldn't want you to be frightened."

"You are sweet." Robin planted a soft kiss on his shoulder, still clinging to him. Whatever the dream had been, it had shaken him to the core… "But you're right. On with the day." he said, trying to sound bracing. "What is on your agenda?"

Relief and normality began to flood the scene as Brandon spoke. "I must meet with Lord Tyrion and Grand Maester Tarly to discuss potential developments in the combatting of the pestilence."

"Developments?" Robin straightened up a little, twisting around to meet Brandon's eyes. "Do you mean Samwell may have found a cure?"

But Brandon shook his head, staring off in a rather pensive manner. "Not yet. We have searched, and we have searched, but it is like trying to catch smoke..."

"Oh dear…" Robin tutted sympathetically. "Well. I shall be in the Sept, trying to combat it in my own way."

At this-the muscles in Brandon's jaw visibly tightened. "I really wish you wouldn't go, my love."

"I know," Robin breezed, unconcerned. "But I am not a man of learning, or of science, and I must do something. I must help in any way I can." Still, the expression on Brandon's face was more than a little troubling. "There is something on your mind. I can tell. Won't you share it?"

In customary fashion, Brandon did not attempt to soften his words by any means. "I wish you would stay away from Kaela." he said, directly. "I do not trust her, and I do not like how close the two of you have become. I do not believe that it is a healthy relationship."

Despite himself-Robin could not help but let out a laugh. "Bran? Are you _jealous_?"

"Yes. Well. No." Brandon corrected himself, a pink tinge appearing on his cheeks. It looked most out of place with his paleness, his seriousness-and the ice of his gaze. "Not in that way…But I want you to know that you come first with me."

After such a statement, Robin found that he was bristling. "Are you implying that you believe you do not come first with _me_?" he accused, narrowing his eyes and slipping a few inches away from him. "Because nothing could be further from the truth. I am a little insulted, actually."

"No." Brandon repeated, more certainly this time. "You did not allow me to finish. I meant that your health and happiness are the most important things in this world to me. And I do not believe that Kaela is part of that equation."

"What in the world is that supposed to mean?" Robin had shot out of Brandon's arms altogether by now, bubbling anger building inside him. "Why do you always have to be so cryptic? Do you think that I need policing, that I need my friends choosing and my decisions made for me? Because if you do, you can get in line behind Alyssa Stone, and Petyr Baelish, and-"

"Of course not." Brandon interrupted, beginning to appear wary. "I simply meant that Kaela is not a wise choice of ally for you. You would be wise to heed my words instead, and stay away from her." He paused, his tone softening slightly. "You cannot understand how much I love you. If something happened to you, I-"

"Oh Brandon, this is just like you!" Robin thundered, flying out of bed and onto his feet. "You always have to behave as if this is not a relationship of equals. As if I am inferior to you in every way-both in my judgement, and in my affections! As if I cannot possibly conceive of what it is to love as _you_ love!" He took a deep breath, his pulse racing, his cheeks growing hot. "I assure you, _husband_, that despite the fact that I am not a savant, I am perfectly capable of thinking for myself!"

"Robin-" Brandon stammered, looking taken-aback at this reaction. But this only incensed Robin more. Why couldn't he ever understand?

"_No_." he cut him off briskly, groping on the floor for his discarded clothes from the previous night. "I intend on spending the day giving hope to the hopeless, and I will not let you make me feel guilty about it!"

"I am sor-"

"I don't want to hear it. Save your clever words for Lord Tyrion." Robin spat, making for the door. "See you later."

But then, his heartbeat racing in his ears, with his hand on the doorhandle…an acute sense of déjà vu washed over the prince. As he stood there, about to storm out of a room containing his husband yet again, he forced himself to pause. Oh goodness. What a fool he was…Slowly, a calm sense of reason began to retake him, slowing his heart and cooling his forehead. And, as soon as he was ready…he turned around.

There was Brandon, propped up on their pillows and looking back at him with most peculiar eyes.

"Oh, for the sake of the gods, what are we _doing_?" he murmured, his voice becoming only slightly short of a lament. "Why do we argue so much these days? What is wrong with us?" He gave a heavy, world-weary sigh, staring at the floor. "Not long ago, I thought I was going to lose you. I ought to be grateful that you are still here."

"No. It's alright." said Brandon shortly, as if it were nothing-but he looked relieved. "I do not blame you for being angry. I imagine I am frequently infuriating, and you are wonderful at putting up with me."

As much as Robin wanted to laugh, he was also moved to pity. Perhaps Brandon did understand how he came across after all…and that was heartbreaking. "I do not _put up with_ you. I love you." He made his way back to the bed, and threw his arms around him once more. "So much."

"As I love you." Brandon murmured into his hair. "I never meant to belittle you. It doesn't matter how much I know, how much of the world I have seen. Without you, I would have no place in it at all." His hand came to rest between Robin's shoulder blades "You are an anchor to me."

"An anchor?" Robin could not help but attempt to diffuse the tension with a giggle. "Being dragged across the seabed, covered in barnacles? That isn't very flattering."

"It is a metaphor." said Brandon dryly, though he did not sound truly irritated. His hand moved upwards, and his fingers buried themselves in Robin's hair. "You understand the meaning, I trust."

"I do." Robin confirmed, his voice ordinary once more. "And I _will_ see you later."

With that, thinking of how close he came to losing his husband, and the lengths to which he would go to avoid going through that hell again, he leaned in close and slowly, softly, kissed his lips. Sweet with love and the morning sunlight, one kiss flowed seamlessly into the next, and soon, Robin quite forgot where he ended, and where his Brandon began…all too quickly, the argument, and the dream, were all but gone.

After a long while-Robin forced himself to pull away, giving a little smile as he did so. "I must leave now, or I never will." Against his will, and fighting the urge to simply climb back into bed with the person he loved, he made his feet walk him towards the door, closing his fingers around the handle once again. But before he could turn it, a strange, mystical voice spoke words to him that were as familiar as they were beautiful.

"You are the light of my life, Robin."

Grinning to himself, Robin felt his heart glowing in his chest. "I know." he whispered back. Then-he pushed open the door, and was gone.


	27. The Sept

**It is late, and it is woefully short, but I thank you from the bottom of my heart for sticking with me. I confess that I have been neglectful on account of studying, but I am now entering a quiet period in the year, so I will go back to regular daily posting. I love writing this, and I hope you are enjoying. More tomorrow! xxx**

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Yet another day had been spent in the gallery over the great Sept of Baelor, watching from on high as the astonishing Kaela laid hands upon the sick. Robin thought he would never grow tired of watching her-the way she talked, the way she sang, the way she could ignite a sense of hope in the hopeless with a single glace. Observing her was a most peculiar sensation; it was as if some kind of divine power from the heavens had sailed down to earth, and taken root inside this red-headed young woman. Sometimes, it was difficult to believe that she was even human. Most strangely of all…this was a sensation he so often associated with Brandon.

Quietly, he overlooked the scene as a foal-like youth, pale of face and purple of throat, was brought before the woman in blue by a tearstained mother. The sheer comfort that Kaela seemed to bring them-the instant she placed her hands upon the boy's sweaty brow, it was as if his poor mother breathed the biggest sigh of relief in the world. As Kaela prayed over him, she wept afresh-but now, these were very different tears. Tears of…joy?

Robin's heart thumped in his chest. How could Brandon ever dismiss Kaela's work as charlatanism? Even if she was a liar, the moments of relief she brought into the lives of the afflicted were beyond measure. Surely, surely, this could only be a good thing. Something, he admitted, he was immensely proud to be a patron of.

Of course, his attendance there was a secret-but rumours that the Prince Consort was present during the healings had begun to fly around the city. Indeed, once or twice, he had caught the smallfolk peering uncertainly up at the ceiling, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of him. In any other situation, Robin would have adored such attentions. But now, there was something far more important to focus on than his popularity as a prince.

Of course, he admitted-he had never been so popular.

Once or twice, in the crowds who gathered outside the Sept, to bring people to be healed or simply to pray to the Mother, he had heard his name being called out. And, at that moment, he could hear a faint, but certain cry, from beyond the high stone walls, through the stained glass windows, and all the way to his ears like beautiful music:

"_Prince Robin! Prince Robin_!"

He would not allow himself to be distracted with flattery. But oh…it was rather difficult. Especially with all the issues he had been having with his husband of late, it was wonderful to feel appreciated.

After the youth and his mother had gone, Kaela threw her long braid over her shoulder, and looked up at the gallery, rubbing her hands together as if brushing them clean. "Pride is a dreadful sin!" she called up playfully.

"I wouldn't dream of it." Robin answered, unable to stop himself from grinning. Had anyone else spoken to him in such a bold manner, he would certainly have taken issue. But to berate Kaela now, when she was doing so much good, felt akin to blasphemy. "I feel as if you are single-handedly absolving our city from this nightmare."

"I am sure that is not true." Her voice echoed up to him-but he could see her facial expression in full definition even from on high. "I understand that the Hand of the king and the Grand Maester are making efforts. But of course," She gave a holy smile. "None can truly save us but the Mother."

Despite his lack of piety, Kaela was so strong in her convictions that Robin almost believed her. He could not help but smile back.

Still, Kaela was gazing up at him, with a curious expression on her face. "I do believe that you are a true child of the gods, my prince."

Robin allowed a little more of her flattery to colour his cheeks. He simply made a non-committal sound, a slight shake of the head-but his smile became serene.

Without losing eye-contact for a second, Kaela took several steps towards him. "There is an old story that the anointed royalty of the gods have healing powers…"

Although Robin initially gave a dismissive giggle, something stirred in his memory. A story told to him long ago, by some maester… "Did they not say it of Baelor the Blessed?" he asked, pleased to be able to sound intelligent for once.

"Oh yes, they did…" said Kaela, her tone becoming most encouraging. Reverentially, she raised her hands towards him, the palms facing upward. The palms that could heal… "Come down, Your Grace. Come down, you anointed prince of the gods. Let the gods work through you to heal your city."

For a moment, Robin did not fully register what she was suggesting…but then-it struck him all at once. Instantly, instinctively, he took a step backwards. "Oh no! I am not allowed-I mean-it is dangerous!"

"Do not be afraid." called Kaela, her tone certain, her eyes wild. "You are a true child of the gods, and they will shield you. Why don't you come down from your ivory tower, and do some real good?"

Something stirred deep inside Robin's belly. Although he did not quite believe her…what if she was right? And if she was…could he have already saved lives by now? If only he had been there for Alys…if only he had reached out a hand…

Robin shook his head, just as the next unfortunate was carted into the sept. He could hear Brandon's voice ringing in his ears, see Brandon's face if he discovered that Robin had come into direct contact with the sick. But still…he wondered.


End file.
